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Full text of "Radio Mirror (Jul-Dec 1943)"

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Scanned from the collections of 
The Library of Congress 



AUDIO-VISUAL CONSERVATION 
at The LIBRARY of CONGRESS 




Packard Campus 

for Audio Visual Conservation 

www.loc.gov/avconservation 

Motion Picture and Television Reading Room 
www. loc.gov/rr/mopic 

Recorded Sound Reference Center 
www.loc.gov/rr/record 



glister's Bin* 




Bxj Inn 



ONE JOIIRNFY 



via Color Pictures -Danny Seymour a 

I E M M Y 



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d? a 




— go on the 

CAMAY MILD-SOAP DIET! 




Watch your skin 
look smoother, softer- 
textured . . . day-by-day! 
Dry flakiness 
smoothes away . . . 
Oiliness is reduced! 



America 's Loveliest Brides are on the Mild-Soap Diet! 








See how soon the 
Camay Mild-Soap Diet 
gives you new loveliness 



To win and hold the heart of one you 
love — make this pledge to yourself—^ 
pledge that new loveliness shall be yours! Go 
on the Camay Mild-Soap Diet— tonight! 
Remember— skin specialists advise a 
Mild-Soap Diet. Yes, Camay gives your 
skin the mild cleansing that these specialists 
say actually helps your skin to new beauty! 
So start tonight! Give up improper cleans- 
ing methods— and change to the Camay 
Mild-Soap Diet. Be faithful. Day-by-day, 
Camay helps your skin look fresher, and 
clearer— till new beauty is yours! 



— . i * **t - 



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A Camay quickee 
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camays mild 
care twice a day 
makes skin 
prettier! 




hearts rule heads 





Put a bright sparkle in your smile. 
Make it your winning charm— with 
the help of Ipana and Massage. 

Here's to you, Plain Girl! Here's to 
your success in winning friends, 
romance— your heart's desire. Yes, you 
can do it— if your smile is right. For the 
girl with a lovely, flashing smile has a 
radiant and appealing charm! 

So smile, plain girl, smile. But remem- 
ber, for the kind of smile that wins at- 




tention you need bright, sparkling teeth. 
And sparkling teeth depend largely on 
firm, healthy gums. 

Never ignore "pink tooth brush!" 

If you see a tinge of "pink" on your 
tooth brush— see your dentist! He may tell 
you your gums are tender because soft 
foods have robbed them of exercise. And 
like thousands of dentists, he may sug- 
gest Ipana and massage. 

For Ipana not only cleans your teeth 



Product of 



but, with massage, it is designed to 
help the health of your gums as well. 

Massage a little Ipana onto your gums 
every time you clean your teeth. Circu- 
lation increases in the gums— helps them 
to new firmness. Let Ipana and massage 
help keep your teeth brighter, your gums 
firmer, your smile more sparkling. 



Bristol-Myers 



Sfa/t today wit A 

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Beau-calching Charm — see how a spar- 
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Enlist the beauty aid of Tpana and massage. 



JULY, 1943 




THE MAGAZINE OF RADIO ROMANCES 



VOL. 20, NO. 3 



FRED R. SAMMIS 
Editorial Director 



DORIS McFERRAN 
Managing Editor 



BELLE LANDESMAN 
Associate Editor 



JACK ZASORIN 
Art Editor 



CONTENTS 

Two of a Kind 8 

I'll Love You More Tomorrow 19 

Come Back, Beloved! 22 

My Heart Remembers 26 

Lone Journey — in Living Portraits 29 

Must We Say Goodbye? 34 

That We May Serve 38 

A Wedding In June 40 

Sho" Nuff 44 

That Brewster Boy 46 

If Love Were All— 48 

Food For Next Winter 50 

ADDED ATTRACTIONS 



Did You Know? 3 

Facing The Music Ken Alden 4 

What's New From Coast to Coast. . . Dale Banks 10 

Be a Smoothie Roberta Ormiston 16 



Inside Radio 51 

America's Singing Sweetheart 54 

Overheard 67 

She Operates Ship's Radio Mary Bradley 68 



ON THE COVER — Ginny Simms, star of the Johnny Presents Ginny Simms show heard over NBC. Color portrait by Tom Kelley 




. . . AS ALWAYS ! 



We dedicate to tke WAVJi S... 



IRRESISTIB 



VLfJ®*, 



Today, it'» your duty to look lovely! In the serv- 
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Few leathers for women's 
gloves have been affected by 
WPB orders for military re- 
quirements. However, you'll 
see short lengths and un- 
trimmed types that don't use 
too much material and waste 
no precious labor featured in 
fall fashion displays. 



The women auxiliaries of 
the German armed forces have 
a very different life from that 
enjoyed by our WAACS, 
WAVES, SPARS and Women 
Marines. The position of the 
German woman soldiers is that 
of servants to the armed forces, 
not as members enjoying the 
rights of membership in the 
same way as men. 



By now, the surplus of 
Victory Gardens is beginning 
to go into cans and jars and 
freezing lockers, into brine and 
*$> into dehydrating processes for 

§ rounding out next winter's 
supply of food. 
Regulation of sugar for can- 
*ning is on much the same basis 
• as last year — to obtain the 
sugar you make a declaration 
■l of the purpose for which it is 
C to be used. Special efforts have 
been made, too, to provide you 

fwith an adequate supply of 
glass jars, tops, rubbers and 
pressure canners. These pres- 
sure cookers, by the way, 
which are essential for canning 
non-acid foods, are scarce — re- 
member to share with your 
neighbor if you have one and 
she hasn't. 



RADIO MIRROR, published monthly by 
MACFADDEN PUBLICATIONS, Inc., 
Washington and South Avenues, Dunel- 
len. New Jersey. General Business, Ad- 
vertising and Editorial Offices: 205 East 
42nd Street, New York, N. Y. O. J. 
Elder, President; Carroll Rheinstrom, 
Executive Vice President; Harold A. 
Wise, Vice President; Walter Hanlon, 
Advertising Director. Chicago office, 221 
North La Salle St., E. F. Lethen, Jr., 
Mgr. Pacific Coast Offices: San Fran- 
cisco, 420 Market Street, Hollywood, 
7751 Sunset Blvd., Lee Andrews, Mana- 
ger. Reentered as second-class matter 
September 17, 1942, at the Post Office at 
Dunellen, New Jersey, under the Act of 
March 3, 1879. Price per copy in United 
States and Canada 15c. Subscription 
price $1.50 per year in United States and 
Possessions, Canada and Newfoundland, 
$2.50 per year in Cuba, Mexico, Haiti, 
Dominican Republic, Spain and Posses- 
sions, and, Central and South American 
countries, excepting British Honduras, 
British, Dutch and French Guiana. All 
other countries $3.50 per year. While 
Manuscripts, Photographs and Drawings 
are submitted at the owner's risk, every 
effort will be made to return those found 
unavailable if accompanied by sufficient 
first-class postage, and explicit name and 
address. Contributors are especially ad- 
vised to be sure to retain copies of their 
contributions; otherwise they are taking 
unnecessary risk. The contents of this 
magazine (Member of Macfadden Wom- 
en's Group) may not be printed, either 
wholly or in part without permission. 
Copyright, 1943, by the Macfadden Pub- 
lications, Inc. Title trademark regis- 
tered in U. S. Patent Office. Copyright 
also in Canada, registered at Stationer's 
Hall, Great Britain. 
Printed in the U. S. A. by Art Color 
Printing Company, Dunellen, N. J. 



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Summer friendships can chill at even a hint of 
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Romantic nights, silvery moonlight can weave a 
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QUICK, SAFE, SURE— that's Mum— a de- 
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Every day, after every bath, follow the 
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Women everywhere praise Mum for its de- 
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Ask your druggist for Mum today! 

• • • 
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Mam fafos tie Odor oaf of Perspiration 

Mum is a Product of Bristol-Myers ' 



Right, lovely Helen O'Connell, who 
left Jimmy Dorsey's band so as to 
be near the one she loves. Below, 
Kitty Kallen, who inherited dance- 
land's most coveted vocalist spot. 



One of the new bands coming to the 
top is Jimmy Carroll's, now broad- 
casting over Mutual from New York's 
Hotel Astor, and below, is his very 
attractive singer, Grade Nielly. 




THE controversy over Kay Kyser's 
draft status, which was front page 
news, has punched a hole into the 
plans of many a top flight band leader 
who thought he could stay a civilian as 
a "morale soldier." Now many of them 
are considering war plant jobs. 

The entire Alvino Rey band crew is 
now working at Lockheed aviation 
plant on the west coast. The King 
Sisters are singing in theaters until the 
Rey band is reassembled after the war. 
Another band unit that may drop their 
musical instruments for precision in- 
struments is Shep Fields' outfit. Fields 
may go to work for Henry "Ship- 
builder" Kaiser. 

* * * 

Enoch Light, former dance band 
leader is now running a musicians' 
school in Carnegie Hall. 

* * * 

The record-union settlement might 

come this Summer if a compromise 
plan is accepted. 

* * * 

Paul Whiteman, granddaddy of mod- 
ern dance music has been appointed 
musical director of the Blue network. 
He'll take over these chores when the 
Burns and Allen CBS show folds for 

the summer. 

* * * 

Dick Haymes has quit Tommy Dor- 
sey's band where he was featured 

vocalist. 

* * * 

Paula Kelly, lovely brunette singer, 
is now a member of Bob Allen's or- 
chestra. Paula used to sing with Al 

Donahue. 

* * * 

Frank Sinatra is a boxing enthusiast. 
He used to put on the gloves with 
heavyweight contender Tami Mauri- 
ello when both were neighborhood 
kids. Frank occasionally sings the 
National Anthem just before the main 

event at Madison Square Garden. 

* * * 

Recently Charlie Spivak held audi- 
tions for a new drummer. The trump- 
eter was dumfounded when one of 



By 
KEN ALDEN 



the applicants for the post turned out 
to be his seven-year-old son, Joel. 
"Couldn't use the kid," cracked 

Charlie. "Has no union card." 

* * * 

Tommy Dorsey is busy working on 
his fourth film, "Broadway Melody," 
on the MGM lot. Phil Spitalny's Hour 
of Charmers will be in the new Red 

Skelton picture, "Mr. Co-Ed." 

* - * # 

Major Glenn Miller of the Army 
Air Corps is now based at Knollwood 
Field, N. C. Corporal Dave Rose is 
busy composing musical scores for the 
Air Force training films. 

Johnny Long returns to the Hotel 
New Yorker July 15. Carmen Caval- 
laro's band goes off on a summer thea- 
ter tour. 

* * * 

The Murphy Sisters have joined 

Vaughn Monroe's band. 

* * * 

Dinah Shore is dickering for her 
own major network show next season, 
dropping off the Eddie Cantor pro- 
grams. 

BACHELOR BURTON'S CHICKENS 

FILLING the sensational singing 
shoes of Helen O'Connell in Jimmy 
Dorsey's band was a major league 
assignment almost every aspiring girl 
vocalist in the country wanted and 



little Kitty Kallen inherited. 

That she has become an integral 
part of this renowned rhythmical or- 
ganization after only five months, isn't 
entirely due to the twenty-two-year- 
old Philadelphian's singing prowess 
or ingratiating personality. Credit 
goes to the shrewd plans of Billy Bur- 
ton, Dorsey's able, aggressive manager. 

"Jimmy hired me in California. The 
next thing I knew we started east and 
I shared a compartment with Helen," 
explained Kitty, "We didn't leave each 
other for a minute until we got to 
Grand Central station." 

The two girls became warm friends 
on the trip, ripened by mutual aims. 
Helen was eager to help Dorsey find a 
suitable successor so she could leave 
the band. Kitty was grateful to learn 
all she could about her new task. 

"The valuable advice Helen gave me 
was really responsible for my catching 
on so quickly," Kitty said. 

I learned all this talking to Kitty, 
Helen, and Burton at a table within 
earshot of the Dorsey band playing in 
New York's Hotel Pennsylvania just 
before the band went west. 

"I figured it would be a great idea to 
put the two kids together," Burton 
added, "so that Helen could tip Kitty 
off to eccentricities of the band. The 
only thing that bothers me now is that 
Helen told her too darned much." 

The two girls exchanged knowing 
glances. Then Helen spoke. 

"What bothers Billy is he still doesn't 
know exactly what we talked about. 
That's our secret and no one will ever 
find out." 

When Helen told Dorsey and Bur- 
ton she was forced to leave the band 
she knew it confronted her friends 
with a serious problem. Helen O'Con- 
nell, idol of the jitterbug's recording 
star, and a potential motion picture 
personality, was a vital cog in the 
Dorsey musical machinery. 

But Jimmy and Billy didn't force 
Continued on page 6 




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{Continued 
Helen to stay with them. They re- 
leased her from a long-term contract. 
Helen was a sick girl and Jimmy and 
Billy knew it. The tall, blonde, hazel- 
eyed singer was tired physically. The 
strain of arduous one-night tours, late 
work, and hours of rehearsing, finally 
caught up with her. The doctors 
warned the singer she had glaring 
symptoms of what might develop into 
fatal pernicious anemia. 

No doctor had to tell Helen these 
facts. When Helen joined the Dorsey 
band in 1939 she was an apple-cheeked 
youngster from Toledo, Ohio, weigh- 
ing a sturdy 145 pounds. Four years 
later she was down to a 114 pounds 
and the color was fast fading from her 
pretty face. 

In addition, Helen had fallen madly 
in love with a Boston socialite, Clifford 
Smith, Jr., now stationed at the Navy's 
pre-flight school in Chapel Hill, N. C. 
She wanted desperately to be near 
him as often as possible. 

So the Dorsey board of strategy 
worked out a plan for Helen to leave 
the band and stay in New York, con- 
centrating on radio work. 

The change has done her a world of 
good. 

"It's wonderful not to have to live 
in a suitcase any more," Helen told me 
happily, "I've taken a small apartment. 
I love to fuss around, cleaning and 
sewing and almost every weekend I 
get to see Cliff." 

Helen plans to marry her Navy man 
when he gets his commission in the 
Fall. Meanwhile Helen is keeping 
busy singing on the Al Jolson CBS 
show and Blue network programs. 

When Dorsey offered the job to Kitty 
Kallen, after turning down a score of 
unsuitable applicants, the tiny vocal- 
ist was an NBC staff singer in Holly- 
wood. She had come there after sing- 
ing with Jack Teagarden's band for 
three years. A child prodigy on 
Quaker City kiddie programs, Kitty 
first sang with dance bands when she 
was only thirteen. She wore her older 
sister's high heels and no one guessed 
her right age. 

"It was like a dream come true," 
Kitty said. "I always wanted to work 
with Jimmy Dorsey. But I was a little 
leery about taking over Helen's job. 
My room mate, Dinah Shore, encour- 
aged me. So I told Billy Burton I was 
willing to take the chance if he was." 

Burton was willing to take the 
chance but not before he set the stage 
carefully. 

"Before Kitty sang a note with our 
band she cost us $8,000," he explained. 
"For six weeks our arrangers worked 
with her. Recordings were made and 
played back for Jimmy. But when she 
did make her debut with us, the kid 
was ready and right in the groove." 

Bachelor Burton watches his two 
expensive chickens like a proud 
mother hen. He may criticize them 
when they're off a beat, reprimand 
them when they're late for dates, but 
the girls love him. They know and 
resnect his judgment. 

However, even to the great Burton 
sometimes comes a cropper. 

"I only made one mistake with 
Helen," he admits. "Last summer when 
we were playing in Boston, I took 
'Stinky' to the races. Instead of train- 
ing her field glasses on the four-legged 
thoroughbreds, she spots them on a 
two-legged one, wearing a natty 
double breasted suit. It's this guy 
Smith. And of course Smith responds. 
It's love at first sight and I know that 



■from page 4) 

Helen's days with Dorsey are num- 
bered." 

* * * 

World War Two tunesmiths are far 
behind the music makers of 1917-18 in 
turning out patriotic songs of nation- 
wide and memorable fame. To date, 
only four songs associated with the 
current holocaust have reached or 
topped the 500,000 mark in sheet music 
sales. These songs are "White Cliffs 
of Dover," "Praise the Lord," Army 
Air Corps song, and "When the Lights 
Go On Again" — weak sisters when 
compared with "Over there," "Pack 
Up Your Troubles" and "Oh, How I 
Hate To Get Up In The Morning." 

* * * 

Ginny Simms, the Johnny Presents 
star and former Kay Kyser singer, 
signed to a movie contract by MGM. 

* * * 

The McFarland Twins, George and 
Art, threaten to break up their dance 
band and go into war production work. 

* * * 

Sammy Kaye says he has a sequel 
to his hit tune of last season, "Daddy." 
It is called "Name It Baby And It's 
Yours." 

* * * 

Add Believe-It-Or-Not Draft Note: 
Skinnay Ennis, butt of all Bob Hope's 
4F gags and better known to radio 
listeners as the Bloodless Bandleader, 
expects to be inducted into the Army. 

* * * 

D'Artega who batoned several big 
league air shows several seasons ago, 
is grooming an all-girl band which 
he'll conduct. 

* * * 

Kenny Sargent, ex-Casa Loma vo- 
calist, is now working in a Memphis 
war plant. 

* # * 

Betty Rhodes, singing star of Mu- 
tual's This Is The Hour show, has some 
tips for you on how to spruce up your 
last year's shoes. Betty shops around 
and finds attractive costume jewelry, 
rips off last year's trimmings on old 







Irving Caesar of "Sing a Song of 
Safety" fame, plays host to Mar- 
isa Regules, Good Will Ambassa- 
dress and South American pianist. 




Percy Faith, conductor of NBC's 
Carnation Contented program, is 
also an arranger and composer. 



shoes and makes them look like new 
with knick-knacks she picks up in 
jewelry stores. Betty's shoes are now 
sporting everything from matching 
lapel pins to dime store rhinestones. 

* * * 

Well, Tommy Dorsey has married 
again. Tommy's wife, actress Patricia 
Dane, is now on her honeymoon and 
it is a strange one. It is what might 
be called a "one nighter" honeymoon. 
The Dorsey band is on a coast to coast 
tour of service camps and Pat is ac- 
companying Tommy and the band. 
Tours across country with a band are 
often a hardship, but the new Mrs. 
Dorsey says she likes it. "I'm not only 
getting to know Tommy better," she 
laughs, "but I'm learning a lot about 
the music business. I could almost 
step in and manage the band." If 
Patricia does, she will be the first 
woman band manager. 

* * * 

That gal Trudy Erwin on the Bing 
Crosby show is fast becoming one of 
the most popular stars on the air. Bing 
picked her out of the Kay Kyser chorus 
and gave her that first, all important 
break. Kyser, not to be outdone by 
Crosby, lifted one of the girls out 
of Bing's chorus, and is starring her. 
A little more about Trudy, whose real 
name is Virginia and who was born 
in Los Angeles just twenty-five years 
ago. Trudy and Bing have much in 
common. Both like to sing, follow 
sports and collect things. Bing has a 
stable of horses. Trudy has two. "Mine 
eat less than Bing's and run faster," 

she says. 

* # * 

The Carnation Contented Hour's 
honor number the other night was 
"Forward to Victory," the song of the 
Red Army Tank Corps. We'd like to 
hear more songs of our fighting Allies 
and also more of our own fighting 
men's songs. That song of the Army 
Air Corps is a genuine and inspira- 
tional thriller. 

* * * 

"Co-ed orchestras will be common- 
place in radio by the end of 1943." 

Authority for this statement is Nat 
Brusiloff, veteran of 20 years in radio, 
now conducting the orchestra on 
Double Or Nothing, over the Mutual 
network, Fridays, 9:30 p.m., EWT. 




BEFOREHAND" LOTION FOR BUSY HANDS! 



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They go where they want, they do what they 
want — Mercedes McCambridge and her husband 

By Adele Whitely Fletcher 



IT'S no use," she said breathlessly. 
"I can't read this dialogue. I can't 
read it naturally, I mean. Because 
I wouldn't talk like that — not in a hun- 
dred years!" 

"Okay, Mercedes, fix it up to suit 
yourself — so you can read it easily," 
Gordon Hughes, the director of the 
radio show told her. She was so eager, 
so earnest he couldn't argue. He knew 
he'd have trouble with the writer. But 
how soon he didn't guess. 

The writer, new on the show, was 
on the telephone five minutes after 
"Lights Out" went on the air. "What 
happened to my dialogue?" he de- 
manded. "I worked over those lines so 
they would show what kind of girl . . ." 

"Look," said Hughes, "suppose you 
hop a cab and come over here and 
meet Mercedes McCambridge. Maybe 
you two can work out the character 
together, figure how she'd be likely to 
think and talk and stuff . . ." 

That night when Mercedes walked 
into the control booth where Bill 
Fifield, the writer, was waiting there 
were stars in her eyes. She thought 
it was so wonderful for a writer 



and actress to get together and talk 
things over. 

Hughes, introducing Mercedes and 
Bill, thought how alike they were, 
how there was the same clean in- 
tense look in their eyes, how they 
had the same vital health and the 
same finely chiseled nose and sensi- 
tive mouth. 

"Busy tomorrow?" Bill asked Mer- 
cedes, "If not, I thought we might go 
swimming together and talk about the 
show. Okay?" 

"Okay!" Her answer might have 
been an echo. Their voices were alike 
too. They had the same enthusiasm. 

Waiting for Bill to call the next 
morning Mercedes made little mental 
memos of everything she had to say 
about the girl she played on the show. 
But somehow, amazingly enough, as 
she and Bill drove through the deep 
green of midsummer they had more 
important things to talk about than a 
radio show. They talked of all the 
things they wanted to do and the fine, 
uncompromising way in which they 
wanted to do them. They couldn't 
understand, either one of them, how 



During the day Mercedes 
McCambridge plays with 
her baby son, Jon, but 
at 7:00 o'clock, EWT, 
every weekday night, you 
hear her on I Love a 
Mystery program on CBS. 




men and women could bear to give up 
their ideals and become slaves of jobs 
and possessions — little houses fur- 
nished with little chairs and beds and 
rugs and tables, little garages with 
little cars in them, little lawns and 
lawnmowers. He talked a great deal of 
Thomas Wolfe, the writer and his idpl. 
Mercedes had never read anything of 
Wolfe's but she became so excited 
about him that she bought all his 
books she could find in her local library. 

For lunch they ate great plates of 
baked beans and frankfurters and 
sauerkraut with ketchup sprinkled 
generously over all of it and drank 
big cups of coffee, one after another. 
Afterwards, unequal to anything else, 
they threw themselves full length on 
the grass of a little picnic grove and 
talked some more about how utterly 
ridiculous it was for a girl with a 
career to marry and how horrible it 
must be for a man with ideals and 
ideas to return home every night to a 
girl interested in nothing under the 
sun but bridge and clothes. 

Then Bill said suddenly, "But if a 
man and a girl each had a career in the 
same work, like you and I, and could 
work together as a unit I imagine mar- 
riage would be wonderful." Where- 
upon he turned his bright dreamer's 
eyes full upon her bright dreamer's 
eyes and said, "For instance, I would 
marry you. In fact I want to marry 
you, more than I want anything else 
in the world. Will you marry me?" 

"Yes," she answered. It seemed to 
her the most natural thing in the 
world that he should ask her. 

Mercedes' parents sent frantic tele- 
grams from California where they 
were vacationing urging her to wait. 
It was apparent, however, that they 
didn't believe for one moment that 
she would. The priest they sought 
refused to marry them. "Marriage," 
he explained patiently, "is a sacred 
institution which allows a man and a 
woman who love each other enough 
to share a home and have children. 
You are young and eager and there is 
an attraction between you. It may be 
great, at the moment, but it isn't 
enough for marriage. In six months' 
time come back to me and say, 'We 
still want to be married' and I'll marry 
you gladly." 

Bill waited until the good man had 
finished talking but it was evident 
from the way he pounced upon the 
first indication of a pause that he had 
not waited patiently. "Come driving 
with us, Father," he said. "Let us tell 
you about ourselves — the things we 
feel, the things we want to do, the 
things we believe. Give us a chance to 
show you how life is with us, for us . . ." 

Two hours later when they returned 
to the cathedral after a drive in the 
country and lunch at a little woodland 
cabin the priest had agreed to marry 
them in the morning. 

They started on their wedding trip 
without any idea of where they were 
bound. "Let's just drive," Bill said, 
"and stop any place that appeals to us." 
Most of their time they spent at a 
little lake in Wisconsin where the 
Swedish people (Continued on page 88) 



. 




Keeping 



Bob Hope 



I. A few simple home exercises will help you 
to keep fit. First, the minute you wake up, throw 
the covers off, jump out of bed, run to the open 
window. Then fill your lungs with that fresh 
morning air, touch your toes briskly ten times . . . 
say . . . this sounds interesting ... I must remem- 
ber to try it sometime! 



2. Maybe you won't believe it, but I once posed 
for health magazines. Remember the ads that said 
"Before" and "After"? Well, I posed for one that 
said "Heaven foibid." But you don't need bulg- 
ing muscles to make you look fit. Pepsodent . . . 
that cool-tasting Pepsodent . . . does that by 
making yout teeth and smile look like a million. 



3. I'm the only guy who ever gets thin from over- 
eating. Every time I come home my relatives are 
over, eating! Of course, that wouldn't be so bad, 
but they use up all my Pepsodent, too! Imagine 
them in front of the theaters, picketing my pre- 
views, yelling: "Remember, folks, nothing beats 
Irium for removing the film!" 




^3f^^<?*^ 



p EPS0DENT 



Only 

Pepsodent 
Contains 
Irium 



4* It's a good idea to exercise. One good way is 
to grasp your tooth (brush firmly, squirt a little 
Pepsodent on it and brush your teeth vigorously. 
This develops the "saluting" muscles in your arm 
in case your draft board makes you class 1-A. 
It also gives your teeth plenty of class and makes 
your smile A-l. 



5. Above all, don't worry. I once thought I had 
high blood pressure. But my doctor cuted it in 
two minutes. He sent the nurse out of the room. 
Of course, I'm luckier with my dentist's nurse. 
She gave me a couple of dates . . . you know . . ; 
Use Pepsodent twice a day . . . see your dentist 
twice a year! 





How Irium in Pepsodent uncovers your bright smile 




*M$ki'i 



Beware of unsightly film on 
your teeth. You can feel it. 
Others can see it. Film col- 
lects stains, makes teeth look 
dull -hides the true bright- 
ness of your smile. 



Film clings, is hard to 
remove. This film -coated 
mirror shows that soap, used 
in many dentifrices, can't be 
counted on. Even fine soap i 
leaves a film of its own. 



But look what Irium can 
do! The same film-coated 
mirror . . . but Irium has 
loosened, removed the film, 
floated it away, left the sur- 
face clean and bright. 



That's how thoroughly Pep- 
sodent with Irium removes 
film from teeth . . . safely, 
gently. That's how easily it 
uncovers the natural, cheery 
brightness of your smile. 




S, it was Joan's lovely 
hair that Bob first no- 
ticed. I remember the day he confided 
to me— "I must meet her — that girl 
with the glorious hair! Have you 
ever seen such sparkling hair? It 
seems so alive, so soft, so .... " He 
stopped confused and I chuckled, for- 



IT WASN'T SO LONG AGO that Joan's 
hair was as dull and drab as a blue 
Monday. Then Mary, the girl at the 
beauty shop, recommended Colorinse 
for adding richer color and brighter 
highlights to the hair — for making it 
silkier, softer and so much easier to 
manage. Weil— 



By 
DALE BANKS 




IT WORKED LIKE A CHARM. Today Joan's 
hair is as lovely as any girl could hope 
for. And a happy bride says "thanks" 
to Nestle Colorinse. Joan also uses 
Nestle Shampoo BEFORE and Nestle 
Superset AFTER Colorinsing. Why 
don't you try it, too? 

JZ? g FOR YOUR NEXT PERMANENT, ASK FOR 
r*^* A NESTLE OPALESCENT CREME WAVE. 



COLORINSE 



2 l«i> for 10/ 
5 r«Mf far 25/ 




10 



YOU hear a lot about the role of 
women in the war these days and 
women are taking over jobs men 
once thought only they could master. 
Vice President Wallace, in a recent 
speech, said that in the era to come 
women are going to gain full equality 
with men in every walk of life. In 
radio, women are equally as important 
as men and are in charge of many of 
the most responsible jobs. The idea 
for one of the most popular programs 
on the air should be credited to a 
woman. Her name is Mrs. Ralph Ed- 
wards. A few years ago, she and her 
husband were sitting home one night 
trying to think up a new Quiz show. 
Mrs. Edwards hit on the idea of a 
"Truth or Consequences" show. Sev- 
eral weeks later, it was sold to a spon- 
sor. Not only has it become one of 
the most popular programs on the air, 
but it has raised millions of dollars in 
war bonds. And Ralph Edwards is no 
longer an unknown announcer, but 
somewhat of a celebrity. Ralph has 
always given his wife credit for her 
idea and she is now his legal business 
partner. Let's have more ideas from 

women! 

* * * 

That delightfully whacky Joan Davis 
of the Rudy Vallee program had been 
having trouble trying to find a maid. 
(So are lots of people these days.) 
Joan solved the problem by inserting 
the following ad in a Los Angeles 
newspaper. "Wanted, a maid. I will 



pay Lockheed wages and get you a 
screen test at MGM." Joan had plenty 
of answers to that one! 
* * * 

We've been writing about radio for 
a good many years. Time has gone 
by very fast and the kids in knee pants 
we once knew are now soldiers, nurses, 
WAAC's. We were talking about it 
to Nila Mack, director of the CBS 
kid program, Let's Pretend. Here are 
what some of her once famous kids 
are doing. Arthur Ross is a Private at 
Camp Upton; Bobby and Billy Mauch 
are in the Signal Corp in New Mex- 
ico; Don Hughes is a member of a 
mechanized division; Billy Halop is in 
the Special Services division; out in 
California, Lester Jay is in the Coast 
Guard; Jimmy McCallion is a Private 
in South Carolina; Sidney Lummet is 
in Special Services; Arthur Anderson 
is with the Air Forces, and Patricia 
Ryan is serving as a nurse's aid. 

boston, mass. — Leo Egan, young 
Yankee Network announcer, began his 
career in Buffalo, New York, as a bond 
salesman and if it had not been for a 
friend's illness who was taking part in 
a local show, he might still be a suc- 
cessful bond salesman today. Leo 
stepped in and did the job so well that 
he changed his career to radio and has 
been doing very well ever since. 

This young bond salesman went into 
dramatics and appeared with Bert Ly- 



tell in "First Legion," Eva Le Gallienne 
in "Camille" and appeared in stock 
with Rosalind Russell. 

He began broadcasting as an actor 
in radio plays in New York, and finally 
returned to Buffalo as a sports and 
special events announcer and it was 
in the same dual capacity that he came 
to the Yankee Network four years ago. 

Leo has been the very able Master 
of Ceremonies on the Yankee House 
Party since June, 1942 that is heard 
over WNAC, the Yankee Network and 
coast to coast on Mutual every day 
at 11:30 a.m. 

Besides his Yankee House Party 
chore, Egan writes a sports column 
on the Yankee Network and also con- 
ducts a service man's quiz inside the 
ball park each day just prior to the 
ball game. Leo Egan does special 
events reporting for the network. 

This young announcer's ambition is 
to write and produce shows. 

nashville, tenn. — The newest star, 
rapidly making a name for himself 
with the thousands who each Satur- 
day night tune in to the NBC broad- 
cast portions of WSM's Grand Ole 
Opry, is colorful guitar-playing Ernest 
Tubb. 

No cowboy of the drug store breed 
is long-limbed Texan Ernest Tubb. 
This smiling singer of American folk 
music was born in the Lone Star State, 
and his early days were spent on farm 
and ranch. Ernest's birthday is Feb- 
ruary 9, and the little town of Crisp, 
Texas, the place of his birth. Ernest's 
experience as an entertainer dates back 
to those days when he first attended 
the old-time dances in the rural areas. 
It was then he began singing the old- 
time songs accompanied by the small 
string bands that made those occasions 
so popular. Since those early days 
Ernest's audiences have grown from 
the few who took part in those social 
gatherings to the many thousands who 
now hear Ernest Tubb over the WSM 
Grand Ole Opry. Of course, his popu- 
larity didn't happen overnight. His 
professional career began at a radio 
station in San Antonio, Texas. It was 
there in 1933 while still learning to 
play his first mail order guitar that 
Ernest secured a job singing with a 
string band. Only a short while after, 
he had his own program over the sta- 
tion. Ernest, along with radio and 
personal appearances, has also taken 
Hollywood in stride. He appeared in 
such Columbia pictures as "Fighting 
Buckaroo" and "Riding West," along 
with the well-known cowboy star 
Charles Starrett. 

The name Ernest Tubb is familiar 
to lovers of folk music all over the 
country, even to those who have never 
seen or heard him in person, the rea- 
son being his popular Decca record- 
ings. Many of the songs that Ernest 
sings were written by him. He's com- 
posed such favorites as "Walking the 
Floor Over You," "I'll Get Along Some- 
how," "I'll Never Cry Over You," and 
many others. Ernest is a family man, 
proud as can be of his two children — 
a boy seven, and a girl three. 
* * * 

Being a radio star, you have such 
important things on your mind you 
often get into annoying situations try- 
ing to do simple things. The other 
night, Eddie Cantor rushed into a phone 
booth to call his home. He dropped 
his nickel, then couldn't remember his 
own number! Cantor tried to get it 
from the operator, but it was one not 
given out by the phone company. Cantor 



How mi| "30 Second "Secret 
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THE TALC WITH THE FRAGRANCE MEN LOVE 





11 



Girls who live 
by the clock 

can't SUFFER 




NO need to tell you how valuable time 
is now! You know. Doing the work 
you have always done — cheerfully ac- 
cepting new duties — wedging in time for 
service organization activity, you find 
that your months are woefully short. 

Now, especially, the days you used to 
give grudgingly to menstruation's func- 
tional pain and depression are too .pre- 
cious to waste. And wasting them is very 
likely needless. For if you have no or- 
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or surgical treatment, Midol should 
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But don't regard Midol as just another 
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Get Midol now. Have it when you 
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MIDOL 




12 



RELIEVES FUNCTIONAL PERIODIC PAIN 



argued with her for awhile, couldn't 
convince her that he was Eddie Cantor. 
He finally had to phone a friend to get 
his own phone number. 

A new kind of news program made 
its debut when Pay Off News went on 
WOR. The series, heard daily at 
9:15 P. M., EWT, is conducted by Ful- 
ton Oursler, noted author and editor. 
The broadcasts consist of questions sent 
in by listeners on the news of the day 
both at home and on the battle fronts, 
and answered by Mr. Oursler. Three 
dollars is paid for each question used 
on the air. Oursler emphasizes that 
he does not attempt to be a commenta- 
tor on his new series, but merely fol- 
lows his profession of twenty-five 
years — that of reporting. 



charlotte, n. c. — WBT's newest ad- 
dition to its announcing staff — tall, 
Alonzo G. Squires — is blind. Whether 
Alonzo is the only blind lad in the 
country holding down a regular an- 
nouncer's job, we don't know. This 
we do know . . . you'll never meet 
anyone with a keener sense of humor, a 
more refreshing personality, or a wit- 
tier or nimbler mind. He's as clever 
a comedian as they come, and his imi- 
tations cause even the glummest of his 
listeners to roar with laughter. 

Alonzo is just as independent as 
anyone who can see, and refuses to 
behave like you'd expect a blind person 
to. When Squires was a guest on the 
Fred Allen program some time ago, 
Fred, seeing his blind guest was with- 
out a seeing-eye dog, offered to buy 
him one. Quick came the reply, so 
typical of Squires. "Thanks, Fred. But, 
heck, I'm too reckless to have one of 
those things around me — he'd be sure 
to get hurt!" 

If you think that's a strange remark 
for a blind man to make — that's just 
because you haven't talked with 



/TN 



Alonzo. You're not with him over three 
or four minutes until you've completely 
forgotten that he's blind. You'll be- 
come completely absorbed by his pleas- 
ant baritone voice, and thrilled by his 
personality. 

Alonzo was born in Kelly, N. C, 25 
years ago, grew up determined to be 
a lawyer. It was while Squires was 
studying law at U.N.C.. that he made 
his first appearance on the radio, and 
subsequently made radio his career. 
Fred Allen had sent out scouts in search 
of guest talent for his radio program. 
When these scouts heard Alonzo's im- 
itations — they took him right back to 
New York with them. 

Alonzo Squires likes dancing, pre- 
fers blondes, and changes his brand of 
cigarettes every once in a while "just 
for the diversion." He buys all his 
clothes himself, and selects tweeds and 
soft-collar shirts. "I drive a hard bar- 
gain, too," says Alonzo. "These slick 
salesmen can't fool me with fancy 
patterns and pretty colors like they 
do most people. Wool has got to feel 
like wool — when I buy it!" 

Squires is a bachelor, but enjoys the 
company of the opposite sex. The girls 
like him, too. 

Alonzo Squires does a complete job 
of making others feel at ease. That's 
why people flock to him, instead of stay- 
ing away for fear that they'll blunder 
into a remark that would hurt his 
feelings. Alonzo is merciless in his 
kidding about himself and his blind- 
ness. But it has accomplished what 
he wanted it to do. It has endeared 
him to the hearts of everybody . . . 
and earned for him a permanent niche 
in the world of seeing people. 
* * * 

Alan Reed, who plays Sol Levy on 
Abie's Irish Rose, phoned author Anne 
Nichols and told her he was in the 
hospital having his appendix out. Anne 
quickly rewrote the entire script. Next 
day, Reed phoned and said the Docs 



He writes a sports col- 
umn, conducts a service- 
man's quiz, is special 
events reporter for the 
Yankee Network — Leo 
Egan who started his 
career as a salesman. 




Fulton Oursler, above, well 
known author and editor, has 
brought a new kind of news 
broadcast to listeners of 
WOR, with his Pay-Off News 
heard weekdays at 9:15 P.M. 



had changed their minds. Not long 
after that, he was quite surprised to 
discover that, in the script, Anne had 
written several scenes in which Solo- 
mon's appendix are removed. 

* * * 

At last, Betty Lou, Tommy Riggs' 
little girl, can be seen as well as heard. 
She will be cavorting in a new cartoon 
strip drawn by artist Fred Moore, one 
of Walt Disney's ace ink men. Tommy 
tells us that the strip is going to be 
swell and thinks you Betty Lou fans 
will go for it. 

That very fine singer and lovely 
person, Lucille Manners, will probably 
be a bride by the time you read this. 
It was a radio romance strictly in the 
Hollywood tradition. A year or so ago, 
a young business man of a prominent 
New York family, sat across the foot- 
lights and watched the golden haired 
girl sing. He began going to all of her 
Cities Service programs and finally 
managed to meet her. His name is 
William Walker and he is now a Sgt. 
in the Army Air Forces. The date and 
place of the nuptials are now up to 
Uncle Sam. 

The Great Gildersleeve's dumb sec- 
retary, Tillie, the Toiler, is played 
by Pauline Drake. Pauline is not dumb, 
but beautiful, smart and ambitious. 
Six nights a week, she works the 
"graveyard shift" at Douglas Aircraft 
plant where she punches figures in the 
payroll department. Pauline also writes 
songs and collects watches, sometimes 
wearing as many as three at a time. 

* * * 

During the time Orson Welles pinch- 
hit for the ailing Jack Benny he had 
the time of his life. The serious Orson 
now wants a comedy show of his own. 
Many radio people thought that Orson 
was beginning to sound more like 
Benny every week, which Benny says 
is one of the reasons he recovered so 
fast. If Jack hadn't come back when 
he did, Mary Livingston gagged that 
she was going into vaudeville with Or- 
son. "I can see it in lights," she laughed. 
"Welles and Livingston, Songs and 
Patter." 

* * * 

RADIO AND THE ARMED FORCES * * * 

Connie Haines has just completed her 
fifth personal record album for the 
War Department's overseas service. 
The Yanks will love this one, for Con- 
nie warbles such hits as "Don't Get 
Around Much Anymore," "As Time 
Goes By" and "I've Heard That Song 
Before." . . . Diana Carlson, former 
secretary to Rudy Vallee, is now a 
WAAC and is writing a column for 
the WAAC newspaper. It's called 
"Dear Boss," and is addressed to Dick 
Mack, director of the Vallee show . . . 
The piano stool in Raymond Scott's 
CBS orchestra is known as the "hot 
seat." It was formerly occupied by 
Mel Powell, who went into the Army 
and is now with Glenn Miller's Army 
orchestra. Sanford Gold took over for 
about a week, then Uncle Sam beck- 
oned. The new pianist, Johnny Guar- 
nieri, may be called any day . . . 
Johnny Richards, the Phil Baker show 
maestro, has given 34 musicians to the 
Army . . . Tex Beneke, famous sax 
player with Horace Heidt, is now in 
uniform . . . Egon Petri, distinguished 
Dutch pianist now heard on CBS, has 
two sons in the armed forces of the 
United Nations. One is an aviator in 
the Dutch Air Force, the other is a 
soldier of the United States Army and 
is now in North Africa . . . Donna 



Wallflower 

(garden variety) 




IT WAS your idea . . . turning that 
vacant lot into a Victory 
Garden. It was you who pledged 
the gang to pitch in and 
plant ... to grow precious Vittles 
for Victory. 

And now, come weeding day, here's 
you . . . wilting! Shirking your 
share while the others slave. 

Maybe you were too ambitious 
. . . when a girl should take it 
a little easy at times like { 
this. Result: you're on 
the sidelines, with a 
worm's-eye-view of life. While 
your blonde rival nobly carries 
on — (just hoping you'll break 
your date with Bill for the barn 
dance tonight) ! 

Of course, she'd never tell you how she keeps so chipper, so confident, 
on her "days"! She'd never let you in on the secret of 
relaxing . . . and staying comfortable with Kotex sanitary napkins! 

Grow a crop of confidence 7 

Ask the other girls and they'll tell you that comfort and confidence 
and Kotex go together! 

You're more comfortable with Kotex because it's made to 
stay soft while wearing . . . wonderfully different from pads that only feel 
soft at first touch. And none of that 
snowball sort of softness that packs hard under pressure. 

And with Kotex you're more confident. That special 4-ply safety 
center promises poise-insurance! There's no bulging . . . for the flat 
pressed ends of Kotex don't show, because they're not stubby. 

Yes, whether you're dressed for gardening or gaiety, your secret's 
secure . . . your protection is sure. So why wouldn't more girls choose 
Kotex than all other brands put together ! And frankly, why don't you ? 

/<^p going in comfort 
-with/to^ 








THE TEENS ARE TALKING about the free 
booklet "As One Girl To Another" — that 
helps you cope with "calendar" problems 
. . . puts you on the beam about groom- 
ing, activities, social contacts. Get your copy, 
quick ! Mail your name and address on a post 
card to P. O. Box 3434, Dept. M W-7, Chicago. 

*T. M. Res. U. S. P«t. OS. 



For Certain Dayc ... if you suffer from cramps, try KURB tablets, a Kotex 
product compounded expressly for relief of periodic discomfort. It merits your 
confidence. Take only as directed on the package and see how KURBS can help you! 




13 



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^^T 2948 style . . . she st 
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ays 



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14 



Wood, the singer, has just married 
Private Ralph Dietz . . . Also the lovely 
Anita, of the Tommy Riggs show, has 
let it slip out that she recently married 
Lieutenant Frank Ellis, of the Air 
Force . . . Fred Waring's new song 
dedicated to the Marine Air Corps is 
a hit. It's called, "A Toast To The 
Corps In The Air" . . . Dave "Our 
Waltz" Rose is now a corporal in the 
Signal Corp. . . . 

* * * 

Red Skelton is always performing, 
whether he is on or off the air. Coming 
to New York on the train, he put on 
a comedy routine in the club car, then 
passed the hat. He made quite a pile 
of money, which he turned over to the 
Red Cross. On the way back to Holly- 
wood, Red "dood it" again, and picked 
up $100 in the club car and $27.35 in 
the observation car. 

Many people have written us asking 
if Wendell Niles and Ken Niles are the 
same person. Nope. Ken is Wendell's 
kid brother, but they are both an- 
nouncers. Wendell, the Bob Hope an- 
nouncer, has had a fascinating life. 
Before he entered radio, he was a well 
known orchestra leader in the Far East 
and Europe. He was also once a profes- 
sional flyer, being one of the first 80 
Government licensed ground school 
instructors. He taught flying at the 
Boeing Field ground school in Seattle, 
then became a master of ceremonies 
and finally an announcer. Wendell's 
first show was for Burns and Allen, 
since then you've heard him announc- 
ing for Al Pearce, Lady Esther, Old 
Gold, Gene Autry and Milton Berle, to 
name a few. He is married to Joan 
Messner. They have two sons, twelve 
and nine years old. He still flies and 
runs his 343 acre ranch in the San 
Joaquin Valley. Brother Ken does okay r 

too. 

* * * 

It is not a romance between Made- 
leine Carroll and Colonel Lemuel Q. 
Stoopnagle, but the Colonel thinks 
Madeleine has her cap set for him. 
Madeleine took a home next door to 
Stoopnagle in Norwalk, Connecticut. 



The Colonel figured she had a slight 
"crush" on him. Then, a' few days later, 
she opened an office right across the 
hall from him in a New York building. 
Stoopnagle is now going around with 
delusions of grandeur. "In my own 
repulsive way," he cracks, "I've got 
oomph." 

* * * 

A Texas newspaper printed a picture 
of Arthur Hughes and Ruth Russell, 
who play Bill and Nancy on Just Plain 
Bill. It was clipped and sent to a 
soldier fan stationed in Alaska. He 
passed it on to an acquaintance. That 
soldier sent it on to a relative of his 
in Boston who then mailed it to a 
friend of hers — Ruth Russell. 

* * * 

Fred Allen was a contestant on Bob 
Hawks' Thanks To The Yanks show a 
few night ago. It wasn't the comedian, 
however, it was a young fellow from 
Brooklyn. Bob asked Fred Allen if he 
had ever met Fred Allen. The unknown 
Fred Allen shook his head, then said, 
"Got any tickets to his show?" Hawks 
didn't have any, but he got some tickets 
for Brooklyn's Fred Allen, who was 
very glad to get them. He still wants to 
meet Jack Benny's nemesis. 

* * * 

Getting contestants for a Quiz show 
these days is no simple task. For a re- 
cent CBS Quiz show, Frank Crumit 
and Julia Sanderson were notified at 
the last minute, that of three male 
contestants, their draft boards already 
had two. Other worry of Quiz masters 
is the "professional Contestant." This 
man or woman makes a business of 
getting on Quiz shows and knows all 
the answers. Most Quizzers know who 
they are and rule them out, but now 
and then one slips by them and gets 
the jackpot. 

* * * 

A new program offering the best in 
sweet, and hot music — Barry Wood — 
guest band leaders — a top ranking 
quartet, the Double Daters — a thirty- 
four piece band — is hot news along 
radio row! 

The title of the program, "The 
Million Dollar Band," certainly is jus- 




Three lovely NBC starlets are spending lots of their time on the farm 
these days — left to right, Dale Evans, Trudy Erwin and Vyola Vonn. 




WBT's new announcer, Alonzo 
G. Squires, is also a very 
clever comedian and imitator. 



tified. A quick glance at the composi- 
tion of this half hour of entertainment, 
heard on NBC every Saturday at 10:00 
p.m. EWT confirms that. 

The unique feature of the show is 
that listeners choose the tunes to be 
played, and are rewarded with a dia- 
mond ring if their letter requesting a 
song and telling what memories make 
this their favorite is read. Five of these 
are read on each program, and diamond 
rings sent to the writers. 

The band is equipped to handle both 
hot and sweet arrangements, and does 
a swell job by both kinds of music, 
satisfying the jitterbugs, and — as one 
jitterbug put it — the older people too. 

The program is emceed and baritoned 
by Barry Wood, whose reputation in 
both capacities is well established. His • 
early background as a saxophone and 
clarinet player with Buddy Rogers, 
Paul Ash, Vincent Lopez and Abe Ly- 
man is well known, as are his years 
with the Hit Parade program and his 
recent brilliant record as the Treasury 
Troubadour on the Treasury program. 
He is responsible for the outstanding 
success of "Any Bonds Today" and 
"Everybody Every Payday" which 
have done such a wonderful job in 
boosting bond sales. His records are all 
top sellers, and his is a valuable name 
on the roster of Victor artists. 

Certainly a good spot to turn your 
dials to on Saturday nights is "The 
Million Dollar Band." 



NEWS NOTES: That international 
tour of Bob Hope and Company may 
be in North Africa now . . . It's a boy 
at the Arthur Lakes . . . Jimmy Cash 
of the Burns and Allen show is now 
doing spare time duty at a local war 
plant . . . Charlie Spivak and band 
are soon to be seen in the Fox nicker 
"Pin Up Girl" . . . Billy Leach, vocalist 
with Guy Lombardo, is a proud Papa 
and it's a girl named Hannah . . . 
For the first time, Irving Berlin's "God 
Bless America" will be sung on the 
screen — and by none other than Kate 
Smith in the picture, "This Is The 
Army" . . . Bing Crosby will play the 
life of Will Rogers for Warner Bros. 
. . . Frank Buck is slated for a radio 
show which will acquaint us listeners 
with Brazil's part in the war effort . . . 
Between his radio shows for CBS, Al 
Jolson is working on his life story with 
columnist Sidney Skolsky . . . That's 
all 'til next month. Happy listening. 



*« 



I married for love...#&/jSfis 




HOW A DISTRESSED WIFE OVERCAME 

THE "ONE NEGLECT" 

THAT SO OFTEN ENDS ROMANCE 




I. There never was a happier couple than Van and I — at first. But a strangeness 
grew up between us . . . Then bickerings . . . Day after day, I cried my eyes out. 




2. One day I came to my senses. I went over 
to see our physician — a woman with a heart as 
big as all outdoors. She guessed the trouble, 
almost before I'd told her anything. " So often," 
she explained softly, "a man can't forgive this 
one neglect . . . carelessness of feminine hygiene 
(intimate personal cleanliness)." 



3. Her recommendation was simple. Lysol dis- 
infectant. "It's so gentle," she explained, "it 
won't harm sensitive vaginal tissues — just 
follow the easy directions. Lysol deodorizes, 
and cleanses thoroughly and daintily. It's no 
wonder that thousands of women use this fa- 
mous germicide for feminine hygiene." 




Check this with your Doctor 

Lysol is NON-CAUSTIC— gentle and 
efficient in proper dilution. Contains 
no free alkali. It is not carbolic acid. 
EFFECTIVE-a powerful germicide, ac- 
tive in presence of organic matter (such 
as mucus, serum, etc.). SPREADING— 
Lysol solutions spread and thus virtu- 
ally search out germs in deep crevices. 
ECONOMICAL— small bottle makes al- 
most 4 gallons of solution for feminine 
hygiene. CLEANLY ODOR— disappears 
after use. LASTING — Lysol keeps full 
strength indefinitely, no matter how 
often it is uncorked. 



4. I did just as she told me— and was delighted 
to find Lysol so easy to use, so inexpensive. 
Today, Van and I are ideally happy. I'm ever- 
lastingly grateful to my doctor. 



For new FREE booklet (in plain wrapper) about Feminine Hygiene, send postcard 
or letter for Booklet R.M.-743. Address :Lehn & Fink, 683 Fifth Ave., New York 
• BUY WAR BONDS AND STAMPS • 




15 




THERE are exercises galore to 
reduce hips and tummies, legs and 
arms, and other individual parts 
of our anatomies. Very efficient many 
of them are too. What often is most 
needed, however, are exercises which 
not only influence a general streamlin- 
ing but also maintain it. There may be 
better streamlining exercises than 
those which Georgia Gibbs (she sings 
on the Jimmy Durante-Garry Moore 
program, heard on NBC Thursday 
nights), practices daily but we haven't 
heard of them. So, we give you 
Georgia's . . . 

TO BE A SMOOTHIE FROM 
SHOULDERS TO WAIST . . . 

. . . make Georgia's simple breathing- 
and-bending exercises part of your 
daily routine. Hands on hips, heels 
raised slightly from the ground, bend 
from the knees while you inhale deeply 
for the count of ten, from the dia- 
phragm. Rise slowly and exhale to the 
same count. Make certain your back is 
straight and your shoulders are pulled 
back. Do ten of these bends a day at 
first and increase the number grad- 
ually until you're up to fifty or more. 
This exercise, properly done, is a fine 
bust and waistline regulator — also 
beneficial in promoting the proper 
breathing for singers, would-be singers, 
actresses, would-be actresses and 
anyone who wishes to speak in a 
voice that has rich resonance. Who 
doesn't? 

TO BE A SMOOTHIE FROM HIPS TO TOES . . . 

... be faithful to this modern version 
of the old rowing-machine stint. Sit 
on the floor, legs spread out straight 
before you, toes together. Raise your 
arms before you — at shoulder level. 
Pull your arms back sharply. At the 
same time move your body forward 
at the hips along the floor. Be careful, 
however, not to change the position 
of your legs. You'll find this will be 
a somewhat bumpy process at first. 
But cherish those bumps! They're just 
the thing that's needed to keep the hips 
where they belong. This also is a won- 
derful way to strengthen leg muscles. 
Try five minutes of this exercise as a 
starter and gradually increase your 
daily dosage to fifteen minutes. 

All right! — you're on your way to 
better and smoother streamlines, to 
better and smoother beauty. 



Get rid of those bulges 
from shoulder to waist! 
Try this bending exercise 
recommended by radio 
singer Georgia Gibbs. 




If you want to streamline your 
hips and legs, you'll get results 
from Georgia's version of 
the old rowing-machine stint. 



BE BEAUTY-WISER 

Large pores are thieves of beauty — 
and no one has to tolerate them! 
Following a cream cleansing, squeeze 
the pores of your skin until you are 
sure all the excess cream has been 
removed from the pores. Immerse a 
cotton swab in rubbing alcohol and 
rub it over your face — briskly. Occa- 
sionally use a complexion brush on 
your face, with either cleansing cream 
or soap and water as a lubricant. This 
will remove the dead outer skin and 
stimulate your skin. 

* * * 

Cold baths, you'll find, act as tonics. 
They invigorate you, give you new 



vitality. If, at first, you cannot step 
into a cold tub or under a cold shower 
run the tub or shower warm and lower 
the temperature gradually. 

Troubled with tired, aching feet? 
Add a little borax, table salt, or lemon 
juice to your foot bath. Then, after 
drying your feet thoroughly with a 
rough towel, massage your feet with 
cleansing cream or olive oil. 

* * * 

When summer lurks around the cor- 
ner and swimming-suits and play- 
suits are featured in advertisements 
and shop-windows, superfluous hair on 
arms and legs again becomes a prob- 
lem. To bleach this hair add one half 
a tablespoon of household ammonia to 
six tablespoons of peroxide. Beat this 
combination with a fork until it be- 
comes cloudy. It's then ready to be 
patted lightly on the hairs with a 
cotton swab. Let it dry, of course. 

* * * 

Warm olive oil is first-aid to brittle 
finger nails. Dip the ends of your 
fingers in the warm oil every night 
until the condition is rectified. 



Radio Mirror Home and Beauty By Roberta Ormislon 



16 



£i\ 




The girl with bright and shining hair 

Can count on lots of beaux to spare I tef ^fl| 





o attests -<S fz^£44tyz?a0 
leaves hair so lustrous. ..and yet so easy to manage!* 






Smart for Summer! Cool, 
crisp low-necked wasbables with 
massive beads. And your shin- 
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Drene) brushed smoothly into 
a simple pompadour and up 
off the back of your neck! 




For glamorous hair, use Special Drene with Hair Conditioner 

added . . . the only shampoo that reveals up to 33% more lustre 

than soap, yet leaves hair so easy to arrange. 



Men can't keep their eyes off you, when your 
hair has that lovely shining look that's glamour's 
first rule! So never lose this key to romance. 

Don't let soaps or soap shampoos hide the lus- 
trous beauty men adore! 

Instead use Special Drene! See the dra- 
matic difference after your first shampoo . . . 
how gloriously it reveals all the lovely sparkling 
highlights, all the natural color brilliance of 
your hair! 

And now that Special Drene contains a won- 
derful hair conditioner, it leaves hair far silkier, 
smoother and easier to arrange . . . right after 
shampooing. 

Easier, to comb into smooth, shining neatness! 
If you haven't tried Drene lately, you'll be 
amazed! 



And remember, Special Drene gets rid of all 
flaky dandruff the very first time you use it. 

So for more alluring hair, insist on Special 
Drene with Hair Conditioner added. Or ask 
your beauty shop to use it! 

*Proctf,r & Gamble, after careful tests of all types of 
shampoos, found no other which leaves hair eo lustrous 
and yet so easy to manage as Special Drene. 





Soafiji/m 

Avoid this beauty handicap — 
by switching to Special Drene. 
It never leaves any dulling film 
as all soaps and soap shampoos 
do. t 

That's why Special Drene 
reveals up to 33% more lustre! 



Special Drene 



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when he sees your new complex- 
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= 



i - ' I 







HE didn't look like himself there 
on the high, white hospital bed. 
His head was covered with band- 
ages and lines of pain etched deep on 
either side of his mouth. But it wasn't 
that that made the difference. It was 
the expression of his eyes. They looked 
empty, as if something had gone from 
him — something that was as much a 
part of Jeff Lewis as his straight black 
brows and his keen, flyer's face. 

His smile, though, hadn't changed. 
When I leaned over and kissed him, it 
was just the same. "That's better than 
a super-charger," he said. "With kisses 
like that, I'll get this old fuselage 
patched up and flying again in no time." 

"Of course you will, darling. Of 
course you will." 

Then he saw Sparky Ranlett stand- 
ing beside me, and the smile changed. 
"I'm the guy," he muttered, "who al- 



Suddenly she knew what she 
must do to restore Jeff's faith 
and courage in himself, even 
though it would mean losing 
his love should her plan fail 



ways said I'd fly planes, not crash 'em. 
Remember? Well — this time I made a 
mistake. You can always be wrong a 
first time." 

"You couldn't help it, Jeff," Sparky 
said quickly. "Nobody could have 
done better with the trouble you had. 
It wasn't your fault. Stop worrying 
about it and just get well." 

"Yeah," Jeff said. "Sure." 



But there wasn't any confidence in 
it. And we all knew it. 

The doctors had said it all depended 
on the way his injuries responded to 
treatment whether Jeff would ever fly 
again. It was his legs. They were 
badly broken, and if they didn't heal 
properly then Jeff would be grounded 
for good. It was incredible! It was im- 
possible. Captain Jefferson Lewis, the 
best pilot in the Ferry Command, the 
man to whom flying was life itself, who 
had "wings in his soul," as Sparky put 
it ... it would kill him to be grounded 
for good. 

And only yesterday he'd been so 
confident, so sure of himself. Only 
yesterday — 

Jeff had been given fifteen hours 
leave, and we were going to spend it 
together. It was to have been our day, 
to do with as we wished, the longest 



19 



» 



time we'd ever been given. Pilots in 
the Ferry Command don't have much 
time for dates, even with the girls 
they're going to marry. And this date 
we'd looked forward to and planned 
for, for days. 

He'd come to my apartment, the 
little, two-room place that next month 
would be our apartment. Next month, 
there would be a card on its door 
reading Capt. and Mrs. Jefferson Lewis, 
instead of Miss Elizabeth Rand. And 
he'd said he was going to spend every 
one of those fifteen hours just sitting 
there on the sofa looking at me. Then 
he'd kissed me in the way that always 
sent sweet fire pulsing through my 
veins, until I'd pulled away half afraid 
of its sweetness. 

FIFTEEN hours," I breathed in a 
■*• hushed voice. "And all of it ours. 
Every minute of it. Ours to do with as 
we want. Oh, Jeff — " 

"We're rich," Jeff agreed solemnly, 
"as Croesus — or whoever the guy was. 
Count 'em — fifteen. From now till five 
a.m. tomorrow." 

"With no planes to fly — " 

"No orders to take — " 

"With nothing to do but what we 
want. Oh, darling, if you knew how 
I've lived for today! 'Our Day,' I've 
called it. All our other dates have been 
such puny little ones — a couple of hours 
here, an evening there, sandwiched in 
between your flying all over the face 
of the earth. ..." I extended my hand 
in mock formality. "Happy to meet 
you, Captain Lewis." 

"The same, Miss Rand. ... I know 
what I'm going to do with my fifteen 
hours. I'm going to sit right here on 
this sofa and spend every one of them 
looking at you. You know," he went 
on judicially, "you're prettier than you 
were the last time I saw you, two weeks 
ago. Why, I bet you're prettier than 
you were even yesterday. In fact, I'll 
bet next month's pay you get prettier 
while I sit here and look." 

"You're making me vain. You're not 
going to want a vain wife, are you?" 
I said lightly. 

"I'll worry about the kind of wife I 
want. Come here, Betsy." 

I went and sat beside him on the 
sofa. That was the funny thing about 
Jeff Lewis. He never ordered people 
around, but when he suggested you do 
something, you went ahead and did it 
automatically. I'm not saying for a 
minute he is the "masterful," over- 
bearing type. He just had the sure, 
quietly forceful way of doing things 
that makes the natural leader. It went 
with his kind of face — the face that 
always reminded me somehow of a 
free, soaring hawk, with its long 
straight nose and dark brows. He 
looked at me seriously. 

"I've always known the kind of wife 
I wanted. I've always had her picture 
in my mind — especially when I'm fly- 





ing. Up there, you shake off the fuzzy, 
confusing things and your mind sees 
only what is important and precious to 
you. Your sense of values, I guess you'd 
call it. Well — I could always see my 
wife. I didn't know the color of her 
eyes or that her hair would be red- 
gold like yours or that she'd be slim 
and have pretty legs. But I did know 
those eyes would be clear and steady. 
And her mouth, no matter how soft, 
would have strength in it. And that 
she'd be a girl who could take it — 
because a flyer's wife has got to take 
it. And then — I met you." 

I sat still, looking down at the long 
hard fingers that held mine. It was the 
most beautiful thing that anybody had 
ever said to anybody — what Jeff had 
just said to me. "Sparky made us 
meet," I said softly. "Remember? It 
was a night I didn't want a date and a 



20 



A Stars Over Hollywood Story 

Ficitionized from an original radio drama, entitled, "My Heart Has 
Wings," by Paul Pierce, first broadcast on the Stars Over Hollywood pro- 
gram, heard Saturday at 12:30 P.M., EWT, over CBS, sponsored by Dari-Rich 



night you didn't want a date, and he 
talked us both into it. . . ." 

"And ever since the minute I walked 
in that door with him, I've known it 
was your face I saw when I was flying. 
It's hard to believe three months ago 
I didn't know. you. . . ." 

"Such a short time — and yet, we 
always did know each other. Forever 
and ever. Didn't we, Jeff? And next 
month . . ." 

"Next month we'll be married — if I 
can wait that long. . . ." 

"If only you didn't have to be gone 
from me so much! If only — " I cried, 
tightening my hand in his. 

"Don't think about that, Betsy. Think 



"/ want a real ceremony and all 
the trimmings. I want to be car- 
ried over the threshold," I said. 




about today only. It's our day." 

Obediently I pushed the sad thoughts 
from me, and smiled. This wasn't the 
time to think of future separations, or 
of past ones. This time we were to- 
gether, with icy rain shutting us in the 
tiny, bright apartment, and fifteen hours 
ahead of us to spend. This time next 
month we would be living here to- 
gether. 

"Let's have lunch, like an old mar- 
ried couple," I said. "And then tonight 
I thought we could go dancing at the 
Hamilton and then on to the swing- 
shift dance at Murray's. Or — whatever 
you want." 
His dark eyes were on my face. "You 



know what I want," he said. Almost 
roughly, his hand was against my 
throat, cupping my face, turning it up 
to his. And his lips, against mine, were 
whispering, "I want to kiss you. I want 
to hold you. I want to think you're 
mine. . . ." 

After a while, I pulled away. It was 
too sweet, too heady. This was a special 
day, a unique day. Next month there 
would be special days, too, but this — 
this one had to be different from them. 

"Let me show you the linen the girls 
gave me at the office shower last week," 
I said hastily. "It's lovely — " 

"Wait a minute. I've something to 
show you first." 



He fumbled at the flap of his uniform 
pocket. No matter how often I saw 
Jeff, his uniform gave me a special sort 
of thrill. The Ferry Command suited 
him so. It was like him. It repre- 
sented something deep in him. 

He pulled out a small box — a 
jeweler's box. The lid flipped up and 
I was looking at an old-fashioned 
wedding ring of simple gold. It was a 
lovely thing. "Look inside," Jeff said. 

¥N TINY, engraved letters I read the 
*■ words that encircled it. "I love you 
more than yesterday, less than to- 
morrow." 

More than yesterday, less than to- 
morrow. My eyes filled with tears. 
"Jeff," I murmured. And then he was 
holding me again, his mouth seeking as 
hungrily for mine as mine sought his. 

The phone jangled, and we both 
jumped. 

"Now who — I've got the day off from 
the office. It can't be them. And you've 
got leave — ■" 

"Probably wrong number," Jeff said 
lazily. "Let's not answer." 

But I was already on my feet. I 
picked up the receiver. If I hadn't, if 
we'd pretended to be out — but that 
wouldri't have done any good. They'd 
have found him somehow. 

"It's Sparky," I said and handed the 
receiver to Jeff. "He wants you." 

There was an odd expression on his 
face when he cradled the phone. "He's 
calling from Operations. I have to go." 

"Have to go?" I echoed stupidly. 

"Afraid so, honey. Special orders. 
Something important." 

"But Jeff — " I glanced at the icy rain 
lashing the window pane. "In this 
weather — " 

"I told you," he said patiently. "It's 
a special, secret flight. As for the 
weather — I fly planes, I don't crack 
'em up." There was no manner of the 
braggadocio in his voice. Only simple 
pride in his skill. 

He turned to pick up his hat and 
raincoat. Suddenly the finality of it, 
the shock and disappointment, seemed 
to break something inside me. I flung 
myself on him. 

"Why, Betsy," he said startled. 
"You're crying. . . ." 

"No, I'm not," I lied in a stifled voice. 

"Yes you are. What's wrong, ' dar- 
ling?" Gently he took my arms from 
around his neck and forced me back 
so he could look at my face. 

"Nothing." 

"I'm as sorry about our date being 
broken as you are — you know that. But 
when you're in the Ferry Command, 
you — " 

"It isn't that. It's nothing — really." 
I tried to smile at him. 

But I couldn't fool Jeff. I never 
could. He gave me a long, searching 
look, and his face changed. It wore an 
expression I'd never seen there before 
— a worry. 

There was no more time. He gave me 
a swift, hard kiss and then he was gone 
— out into that icy rain to start his 
special secret mission. With a look of 
worry on his face that I had put there. 
I couldn't get it out of my mind. Once, 
months before, (Continued on page 56) 



21 



time we'd ever been given. Pilots in 
Te Fe7ry Command don't have much 
lime V dates, even with the g.rb 
they're going to marry. And th s date 
we'd looked forward to and planned 
for, for days. .. 

He'd come to my apartment, the 
little, two-room place that next month 
would be our apartment. Next month, 
there would be a card on its door 
reading Capt. and Mrs. Jefferson Lewis 
instead of Miss Elizabeth Rand. And 
he'd said he was going to spend every 
one of those fifteen hours just sitting 
there on the sofa looking at me. Then 
he'd kissed me in the way that always 
sent sweet fire pulsing through my 
veins, until I'd pulled away half afraid 
of its sweetness. 

FIFTEEN hours," I breathed in a 
hushed voice. "And all of it ours. 
Every minute of it. Ours to do with as 
we want. Oh, Jeff—" 

"We're rich," Jeff agreed solemnly, 
"as Croesus— or whoever the guy was. 
Count "em— fifteen. From now till five 
a.m. tomorrow." 

"With no planes to fly—" 

"No orders to take — " 

"With nothing to do but what we 
want. Oh, darling, if you knew how 
I've lived for today! 'Our Day,' I've 
called it. All our other dates have been 
such puny little ones — a couple of hours 
here, an evening there, sandwiched in 
between your flying all over the face 
of the earth. ..." I extended my hand 
in mock formality. "Happy to meet 
you, Captain Lewis." 

"The same, Miss Rand. ... I know 
what I'm going to do with my fifteen 
hours. I'm going to sit right here on 
this sofa and spend every one of them 
looking at you. You know," he went 
on judicially, "you're prettier than you 
were the last time I saw you, two weeks 
ago. Why, I bet you're prettier than 
you were even yesterday. In fact, I'll 
bet next month's pay you get prettier 
while I sit here and look." 

"You're making me vain. You're not 
going to want a vain wife, are you?" 
I said lightly. 

"Ill worry about the kind of wife I 
want. Come here, Betsy." 

I went and sat beside him on the 
sofa. That was the funny thing about 
Jeff Lewis. He never ordered people 
around, but when he suggested you do 
something, you went ahead and did it 
automatically. I'm not saying for a 
minute he is the "masterful," over- 
bearing type. He just had the sure, 
quietly forceful way of doing things 
that makes the natural leader. It went 
with his kind of face— the face that 
always reminded me somehow of a 
free, soaring hawk, with its long 
straight nose and dark brows. He 
looked at me seriously. 

"I've always known the kind of wife 
I wanted. I've always had her picture 
in my mind— especially when I'm fly- 



_ • A Stars Over Hollywood Story 



20 







ing. Up there, you shake off the fuzzy, 
confusing things and your mind sees 
only what is important and precious to 
you. Your sense of values, I guess you'd 
call it. Well — I could always see my 
wife. I didn't know the color of her 
eyes or that her hair would be red- 
gold like yours or that she'd be slim 
and have pretty legs. But I did know 
those eyes would be clear and steady. 
And her mouth, no matter how soft, 
would have strength in it. And that 

she'd be a girl who could take it 

because a flyer's wife has got to take 
it. And then — I met you." 

I sat still, looking down at the long 
hard fingers that held mine. It was the 
most beautiful thing that anybody had 
ever said to anybody— what Jeff had 
just said to me. "Sparky made us 
meet," I said softly. "Remember' It 
was a night I didn't want a date and a 



night you didn't want a date, and he 
talked us both into it. . . ." 

"And ever since the minute I walked 
in that door with him, I've known it 
was your face I saw when I was flying. 
It's hard to believe three months ago 
I didn't know you. . . ." 

"Such a short time — and yet, we 
always did know each other. Forever 
and ever. Didn't we, Jeff? And next 
month . . ." 

"Next month we'll be married— if 1 
can wait that long. . . ." 

"If only you didn't have to be gc 
from me so much! If only — " I cri 
tightening my hand in his. 

"Don't think about that, Betsy. Th 



about today only. It's our day." 

Obediently I pushed the sad thoughts 
from me, and smiled. This wasn't the 
time to think of future separations, or 
of past ones. This time we were to- 
gether, with icy rain shutting us in the 
tiny, bright apartment, and fifteen hours 
ahead of us to spend. This time next 
month we would be living here to- 
gether. 

"Let's have lunch, like an old mar- 
ried couple," I said. "And then tonight 
i thought we could go dancing at the 
Hamilton and then on to the swing- 
snift dance at Murray's. Or— whatever 
you want." 
His dark eyes were on my face. "You 



know what I want," he said. Almost 
roughly, his hand was against my 
throat, cupping my face, turning it up 
to his. And his lips, against mine, were 
whispering, "I want to kiss you. I want 
to hold you. I want to think you're 
mine. . . ." 

After a while, I pulled away. It was 
too sweet, too heady. This was a special 
day, a unique day. Next month there 
would be special days, too, but this — 
this one had to be different from them. 

"Let me show you the linen the girls 
gave me at the office shower last week," 
I said hastily. "It's lovely—" 

"Wait a minute. I've something to 
show you first." 



pocket N^ * t J he ? 8P 0f his un "°™ 
pocket. No matter how often I saw 

of thrm Un rt r ^ gaVe me a s e~ ial *»'t 
hiJ . • ^ Ferrv Command suited 
^"J°- "was like him. It repre 
sented something deep in him. 
. He pulled out a small box— a 

I was loolung at an old-fashioned 
wedding ring of simple gold. It was a 
lovely thing. "Look inside," Jeff ^ id 

JN TINY, engraved letters I read the 
words that encircled it. "I love you 
more than yesterday, less than to- 
morrow. • 

More than yesterday, less than to- 
moTTou. My eyes Ailed with tears. 
Jeff, I murmured. And then he was 
holding me again, his mouth seeking as 
hungnly for mine as mine sought his 
The phone jangled, and we both 
jumped. 

"Now who— I've got the day off from 
the office. It can't be them. And you've 
got leave — " 

"Probably wrong number," Jeff said 
lazily. "Let's not answer." 

But I • was already on my feet I 
picked up the receiver. If I hadn't, if 
we'd pretended to be out— but that 
wouldrt't have done any good. They'd 
have found him somehow. 

"It's Sparky," I said and handed the 
receiver to Jeff. "He wants you." 

There was an odd expression on his 

face when he cradled the phone. "He's 

calling from Operations. I have to go." 

"Have to go?" I echoed stupidly. 

"Afraid so, honey. Special orders. 

Something important." 

"But Jeff — " I glanced at the icy rain 
lashing the window pane. "In this 
weather — " 

"I told you," he said patiently. "It's 
a special, secret flight. As for the 
weather— I fly planes, I don't crack 
'em up." There was no manner of the 
braggadocio in his voice. Only simple 
pride in his skill. 

He turned to pick up his hat and 
raincoat. Suddenly the finality of it, 
the shock and disappointment, seemed 
to break something inside me. I flung 
myself on him. 

"Why, Betsy," he said startled. 
"You're crying. . . ." 
"No, I'm not," I lied in a stifled voice. 
"Yes you are. What's wrong, dar- 
ling?" Gently he took my arms from 
around his neck and forced me back 
so he could look at my face. 
"Nothing." 

"I'm as sorry about our date being 
broken as you are — you know that. But 
when you're in the Ferry Command, 
you — " 

"It isn't that. It's nothing — really." 
I tried to smile at him. 

But I couldn't fool Jeff. I never 
could. He gave me a long, searching 
look, and his face changed. It wore an 
expression I'd never seen there before 
— a worry. 

There was no more time. He gave me 
a swift, hard kiss and then he was gone 
— out into that icy rain to start his 
special secret mission. With a look of 
worry on his face that I had put there. 
I couldn't get it out of my mind. Once, 
months before, (Continued on page 56) ,. 




\J#w//^ 



22 



SOMETIMES I feel that each detail 
in our story, Michael's and mine — 
yes, and Julie's, too — was engraved 
in our hearts from the day we were 
born, and that I couldn't have escaried 
the joy and the laughter and the 
heartache of knowing Michael Shan- 
non if I had tried. 

For how else can you explain the 
strange chain of events that linked 
us inevitably together — drew us closer 
and closer until our fate was sealed 
forever in the small golden circle of 
a wedding ring? 

As I look back on it now, it was 
so typical of Michael, the way he came 
crashing, blundering into my life. I 
was just starting as a stenographer 
at Interstate Press. It was my second 
day there. My desk, I remember, was 
near the aisle, between the printing 
plant and young Mr. Bogart's office; 
Mr. Harry Bogart, the puffy, stuck-up 
son of our boss. 

Like the rest, I was already growing 
accustomed to the sounds that came 
from the print shop, to the rhythmic 
drone of the presses that went on hour 
after hour. And like the rest I looked 
up when the noises stopped. 

And that afternoon, over the un- 
familiar quiet, we heard a man shout- 
ing. Shouting and swearing in such a 
mighty wrath that the others around 
me looked at one another and smiled. 

Suddenly the door of the printing 
plant was jerked open. And out of 
it plunged a man, a six foot tornado 
with black hair that seemed almost 
to stand on end. There was a wild 
look in his stormy blue eyes, and they 
were fixed in terrible anger on the 
door to Mr. Bogart Jr.'s office. 

In one hand he held a proof, a big 
square of paper with a corner that 
was torn as he had ripped it off the 
press. 

I could almost feel the heat of his 
anger as he came my way. And the 
next thing I knew there was a col- 
lision. He had knocked against a cor- 
ner of my desk and a wire basket went 



crashing to the floor. It had been 
filled, stacked high with cleanly typed 
pages and cleanly typed envelopes, the 
whole day's work. Now they were 
scattered over the floor, crumpled un- 
der Michael's -feet. 

When he saw what had happened, 
he stopped. It was as though he had 
jammed on the brakes. He looked 
at those papers on the floor, and at 
me, and back to the papers again. 
There may have been tears in my 
eyes — I needed that job and I had 
worked so hard, so carefully over those 
neatly typed letters. 

In a moment he was on his hands 
and knees, picking them up in his 
grimy, ink-stained fingers. I sat, frozen 
to my chair, watching him with a 
feeling of terror and dismay, no 
more thinking of trying to stop him 
than I would have tried, to stop a 
tornado. 

He was still on one knee when he 
turned to me. And as I bent over 
to save just one letter, his shoulder 
touched mine and his dark hair brushed 





Adapted from an original radio play, 
"Christmas Cottage," by Dane Lussier, 
first broadcast on Stars Over Holly- 
wood, heard Saturdays at 12:30 P.M., 
EWT, over CBS, sponsored by Dari-Rich. 



against my face, and then he had 
ruined that one too. 

He looked up at me humbly. The 
anger had gone out of those stormy 
eyes and they seemed to be telling me 
that he'd make it up to me somehow. 

Then he handed me the letters. And 
when he saw what he had done to 
them, saw the way he had inked them 
with his fingerprints, he gave me such 
a look of shocked alarm that I burst 
out laughing, and then he was laugh- 
ing too — a deep chuckle that came from 
somewhere down inside his chest. 

He went on to Mr. Bogart's office. 
I turned around and followed him with 
my eyes. And when he turned too, 
and our eyes met again, he grinned, 
and I felt myself blushing. 

I looked around at the other girls. 
They were watching me with knowing 
smiles. 

"Who . . .who's that?" I asked. 

"That's Michael," one of the girls 
said. It was as though she were giving 
me the name of a famous movie star. 
"Michael Shannon, the night foreman." 

If you could have seen him, if you 
could have seen just those eyes of 
his, eyes that could be so friendly if 
he liked you, so distant if he didn't — 
you would understand how he could 
be what he was, the foremen of a 
printing plant, and still be known as 
Michael, instead of Mike. 

I learned a little about Michael then. 
He had something of a past, it seemed, 
and there was a girl, a girl named 
Julie. . . . No, I didn't learn the 
whole story, for that was locked in 
Michael's heart. And later I was to 
get it from him, one tortured frag- 
ment at a time, until I had pieced 
all the fragments together. 

That night I stayed late at the office, 
working on the letters Michael had 
destroyed, doing every one of them 
over. I knew they were important, 
that they had to go out. And if they 
weren't mailed on time, what excuse 
could I give, except that Michael had 
knocked them on the floor? 




I sat there outside the print shop, 
hearing the sound of Michael's voice 
occasionally above the drone of the 
presses. He was the night foreman. 
His hours were from four to twelve. 
And he knew that I, ordinarily, /would 
have left at five. So when he hap- 
pened to open the door of the shop, 
about nine o'clock, and saw me sit- 
ting all alone in that deserted office, 
he looked surprised. 

"What in thunder are you doing 
here?" he asked. 

I just smiled — a little sadly I sup- 
pose — and kept on working. 

He came out again at eleven-thirty. 
He was startled when he saw I was 
still there. And he wore a reproving 
look that was half real, half playful. 



"I thought I told you to go home," 
he said. "Have you gone daft?" He 
came over to my desk, where I was 
working on the one letter I had left 
to type. "What's the meaning of this 
nonsense?" he asked. "Expect to get 
a raise?" 

I tried to smile, but I was almost 
too tired. "No," I said, "I just happen 
to need this job." 

He looked down at my desk and 
then he realized what I was doing — 
typing over those letters he had spoiled. 
That was the first time I was to see 
that sad, repentant look, which later 
I came to know so well. Michael could 
hurt people so quickly, so deeply, and 
then he'd be so terribly sorry. 

"So it's all on account of me," he 



The story of Ann, who gave 
her. heart to Michael, and of 
Michael, whose heart belong- 
ed to Julie — the lovely mem- 
ory who stood between them 



said. He stood there wiping his hands 
on a bit of cotton waste, looking down 
at me with eyes so full of woe that I 
could have forgiven him a dozen times 
over. "I ought to be shot," he said. 

I tried to tell him it was my fault, 
that I'd left the basket too near the 
edge of the desk, but he wasn't even 
listening. The way he was looking at 
me, I felt he was just watching the 
words come out of my mouth. 

"You're a pretty thing when you try 
to lie," he said. 

I blushed. Michael was a man who 
could look at you and make you blush. 

"Stick around till twelve," he said. 
"I'll have Battlin' Bessie drive you 
home." 

"Battlin' Bessie?" I repeated. 

"The old gray car," he said. He didn't 
even smile. It was only later that I 
learned to look for that twinkle he 
had tucked away in a corner of his eye. 

I stuck around. And he drove mc 
home in his old gray car. It was 
an automobile of ancient vintage, but 
under his persuasive mechanic's hands, 
the motor was kept tuned up to per- 
fection. 

On the way, we stopped in front 
of a bowling alley. The sign outside 
said, "Open day and night, never 
closed." 

"I could take you home and come 
back," he said, "or you could stop off 
and do a little bowling with me. I 
always like to get in a game or two 
before I go to bed." 
. I had to be at work at nine, while 
he could sleep. I thought it just hadn't 
occurred to him, and I was a little 
angry at first. But he'd thought of 
it all right. 

"You're all tensed up," he said. "I 
can feel it "when I touch your arm. 
It's the work that's made you that 
way. A little bowling now and you'll 
relax, and sleep like an angel." 

He was right. I could already feel 
myself relaxing in the friendly warmth 
of his voice. "But I've never bowled," 
I protested. 

"Fine," he said. "I'll teach you." He 



23 




£$4s£j 



SOMETIMES I feel that each detail 
in our story, Michael's and mine — 
yes, and Julie's, too — was engraved 
in our hearts from the day we were 
born, and that I couldn't have escapted 
the joy and the laughter and the 
heartache of knowing Michael Shan- 
non if I had tried. 

For how else can you explain the 
strange chain of events that linked 
us inevitably together — drew us closer 
and closer until our fate was sealed 
forever in the small golden circle of 
a wedding ring? 

As I look back on it now, it was 
so typical of Michael, the way he came 
crashing, blundering into my life. I 
was just starting as a stenographer 
at Interstate Press. It was my second 
day there. My desk, I remember, was 
near the aisle, between the printing 
plant and young Mr. Bogart's office; 
Mr. Harry Bogart, the puffy, stuck-up 
son of our boss. 

Like the rest, I was already growing 
accustomed to the sounds that came 
from the print shop, to the rhythmic 
drone of the presses that went on hour 
after hour. And like the rest I looked 
up when the noises stopped. 

And that afternoon, over the un- 
familiar quiet, we heard a man shout- 
ing. Shouting and swearing in such a 
mighty wrath that the others around 
me looked at one another and smiled. 
Suddenly the door of the printing 
plant was jerked open. And out of 
it plunged a man, a six foot tornado 
with black hair that seemed almost 
to stand on end. There was a wild 
look in his stormy blue eyes, and they 
were fixed in terrible anger on the 
door to Mr. Bogart Jr.'s office. 

In one hand he held a proof, a big 
square of paper with a corner that 
was torn as he had ripped it off the 
press. 

I could almost feel the heat of his 
anger as he came my way. And the 
next thing I knew there was a col- 
lision. He had knocked against a cor- 
22 ner of my desk and a wire basket went 



crashing to the floor. It had been 
filled, stacked high with cleanly typed 
pages and cleanly typed envelopes, the 
whole day's work. Now they were 
scattered over the floor, crumpled un- 
der Michael's- feet. 

When he saw what had happened, 
he stopped. It was as though he had 
jammed on the brakes. He looked 
at those papers on the floor, and at 
me, and back to the papers again. 
There may have been tears in my 
eyes — I needed that job and I had 
worked so hard, so carefully over those 
neatly typed letters. 

In a moment he was on his hands 
and knees, picking them up in his 
grimy, ink-stained fingers. I sat, frozen 
to my chair, watching him with a 
feeling of terror and dismay, no 
more thinking of trying to stop him 
than I would have tried to stop a 
tornado. 

He was still on one knee when he 
turned to me. And as I bent over 
to save just one letter, his shoulder 
touched mine and his dark hair brushed 





Adopted from an original radio play, 
"Christmas Cottage," by Dane Lussier, 
first broadcast on Stars Over Holly- 
wood, heard Saturdays at 12:30 P.M., 
EWT, over CBS, sponsored by Dari-Rich! 



against my face, and then he had 
ruined that one too. 

He looked up at me humbly. The 
anger had gone out of those stormy 
eyes and they seemed to be telling me 
that he'd make it up to me somehow. 
Then he handed me the letters. And 
when he saw what he had done to 
them, saw the way he had inked them 
with his fingerprints, he gave me such 
a look of shocked alarm that I burst 
out laughing, and then he was laugh- 
ing too — a deep chuckle that came from 
somewhere down inside his chest. 

He went on to Mr. Bogart's office. 
I turned around and followed him with 
my eyes. And when he turned too, 
and our eyes met again, he grinned, 
and I felt myself blushing. 

I looked around at the other girls. 
They were watching me with knowing 
smiles. 
"Who . . . who's that?" I asked. 
"That's Michael," one of the girls 
said. It was as though she were giving 
me the name of a famous movie star. 
"Michael Shannon, the night foreman." 
If you could have seen him, if you 
could have seen just those eyes of 
his, eyes that could be so friendly if 
he liked you, so distant if he didn't— 
you would understand how he could 
be what he was, the foremen of a 
printing plant, and still be known as 
Michael, instead of Mike. 

I learned a little about Michael then. 
He had something of a past, it seemed, 
and there was a girl, a girl named 
Julie. . . . No, I didn't learn the 
whole story, for that was locked in 
Michael's heart. And later I was to 
get it from him, one tortured frag- 
ment at a time, until I had pieced 
all the fragments together. 

That night I stayed late at the office, 
working on the letters Michael had 
destroyed, doing every one of them 
over. I knew they, were important, 
that they had to go out. And if they 
weren't mailed on time, what excuse 
could I give, except that Michael had 
knocked them on the floor? 



I sat there outside the print shop, 
neanng the sound of Michael's voice 
occasionally above the drone of the 
presses. He was the night foreman. 
nis : hours were from four to twelve, 
haw. i « neW that r » ordinarily,, would 
PeneVf at five - So when he hap- 
pened to open the door of the shop, 

tiZ J™, ° clock ' and saw me sit- 
h w ! 0ne in that deserted office, 

"Wh sur Prised. 
herl?" u ln thun der are you doing 
»erer he asked. 

Pose^a„ d Sm ,± le< h- a little sadl y I sup- 

Hp pt on working. 

He «,= am f 0ut again at eleven-thirty. 

still there I'** ? h ™ he SaW l WaS 
look «k * a ne wore a reproving 

°°k that was half real, half playful 



"I thought I told you to go home," 
he said. "Have you gone daft?" He 
came over to my desk, where I was 
working on the one letter I had left 
to type. "What's the meaning of this 
nonsense?" he asked. "Expect to get 
a raise?" 

I tried to smile, but I was almost 
too tired. "No," I said, "I just happen 
to need this job." 

He looked down at my desk and 
then he realized what I was doing- 
typing over those letters he had spoiled. 
That was the first time I was to see 
that sad, repentant look, which later 
I came to know so well. Michael could 
hurt people so quickly, so deeply, and 
then he'd be so terribly sorry. 

"So it's all on account of me, he 



The story of Ann, who gave 
her. heart to Michael, and of 
Michael, whose heart belong- 
ed to Julie — the lovely mem- 
ory who stood between them 



said. He stood there wiping his hands 
on a bit of cotton waste, looking down 
at me with eyes so full of woe that I 
could have forgiven him a dozen times 
over. "I ought to be shot," he said. 
I tried to tell him it was my fault 
that I'd left the basket too near the 
edge of the desk, but he wasn't even 
listening. The way he was looking at 
me, I felt he was just watching the 
words come out of my mouth. 

"You're a pretty thing when you try 
to lie," he said. 

I blushed. Michael was a man who 

could look at you and make you blush. 

"Stick around till twelve," he said. 

"I'll have Battlin' Bessie drive you 

home." 

"Battlin' Bessie?" I repeated. 
"The old gray car," he said. He didn't 
even smile. It was only later that I 
learned to look for that twinkle he 
had tucked away in a corner of his eye. 
I stuck around. And he drove me 
home in his old gray car. It was 
an automobile of ancient vintage, but 
under his persuasive mechanic's hands, 
the motor was kept tuned up to per- 
fection. 

On the way, we stopped in front 
of a bowling alley. The sign outside 
said, "Open day and night, never 
closed." 

"I could take you home and come 
back," he said, "or you could stop off 
and do a little bowling with me. I 
always like to get in a game or two 
before I go to bed." 

I had to be at work at nine, while 
he could sleep. I thought it just hadn't 
occurred to him, and I was a little 
angry at first. But he'd thought of 
it all right. 

"You're all tensed up," he said. "I 
can feel it 'when I touch your arm. 
It's the work that's made you that 
way. A little bowling now and you'll 
relax, and sleep like an angel." 

He was right. I could already feel 
myself relaxing in the friendly warmth 
of his voice. "But I've never bowled," 
I protested. 

"Fine," he said. "I'll teach you." He 23 



got out and helped me out of the car 
as though he were Galahad and I 
were a queen. It was such an elaborate 
gesture, the way he did it. Suddenly 
the thought occurred to me that it 
was something that girl, Julie, had 
taught him, that he was showing off 
the manners he had learned. 

A shout went up when we entered 
the bowling alley. There was a group 
of men, a girl or two. Michael's friends, 
all of them. I could see how much they 
thought of him here. 

riE introduced me with a wave of 
*" i - his hand. He didn't bother to 
give me their names. 

"This is Ann," he said. 

"Ann Jerrold," I added. 

And just in the way they looked 
at me, I could see what an honor it 
was to be a friend of Michael's. 

So it was Michael who taught me 
how to bowl. Under his simple and 
expert guidance, I picked it up sooner 
than I had expected. He knew how 
to get to the center of things, to give 
you the basic details in a few simple 
words. 

Once in a while, when my aim was 
poor, he would take hold of my arm, 
standing close to me, blending his 
strong supple body with mine, to show 
me the rhythm of the swing, and the 
"follow through." 

I was a woman; I was human — I 
began to make mistakes just so he 
would show me again. Once, when I 
apologized for my "helplessness," he 
assured me I was learning much more 
quickly than — and he stopped, there. 
"Than another girl I taught once," 
he concluded. 

Much better than Julie? I wanted 
to ask it. That name had been in the 
back of my mind. I was sure he'd 
been going to say ". . . . better than 
Julie." 

He didn't refer again to the inci- 
dent of the spoiled letters. But I felt 
that this was his way of making it 
up to me, of making things all right. 

Once, while we were sitting on the 
bench, waiting our turn, he did men- 
tion the boss's son. I found out why 
he had been rushing so angrily into 
the office of young Harry Bogart. For 
Mr. Bogart, Junior, had gone to one 
of Michael's pressmen, and had given 
a change of instructions without let- 
ting Michael, the foreman, know. A 
foreman of a printing plant, Michael 
explained to me, was like the captain 
of a ship. He and he alone gave the 
orders. 

He sat there for a while without 
saying anything, and then I could see 
him swearing under his breath, and I 
knew the curses were meant for Harry 
Bogart — Harry, who Couldn't forget 
that he was the boss's son, and that 
he had once been a star on his college 
football team. 

"One of these days I'll knock his 
ears off," Michael said. 

I was to remember that threat a 
little later. 

It was early morning, of course, when 



he drove me home. I was tired, but I 
would have climbed a mountain with 
him that night, if he had asked me to. 
It was as though he were pouring 
some of his strength and vitality into 
mine. 

"So now you know what bowling 
is like," he said. "Did you enjoy it?" 

I told him it was wonderful. And 
I said I liked being made a member 
of his inner circle. 

"My inner circle," he repeated. The 
phrase seemed to please him, and at 
the same time to strike a note of sad- 
ness somewhere in his memory. "My 
inner circle," he said again. Then he 
mentioned Julie for the first time. "I 
had a girl once," he said. "Her name 
was Julie. It was always her little 
circle of friends, not mine. To hear 
her talk you'd have thought I didn't 
have an inner circle, or anyway, none 
that amounted to anything." 

I didn't know what to say. I sat there 
beside him in the car, hoping he would 
tell me more, and not daring to ask. 
I reached out to put my hand on his 
arm, and then I .didn't, for he had 
stepped on the gas and was driving 
along at a reckless pace. 

He stopped in front of my door. I 
had to point out the house, for my 
father and sister and I lived in one 
of those little houses built in a long 
row, all of them exactly alike. 

He didn't show any interest 
in where I lived — or for 
that matter, any further 
interest in me. It was 
as though our eve- 
ning was simply 
an end to the 
incident of 
the spoiled 



letters. I didn't have to be a mind 
reader to see that he was thinking 
about Julie now, that he had been 
thinking of her all during the last 
part of our ride. 

I just couldn't say good-night to 
him like this, feeling that he would 
never want to take me out again. And 
then I got an idea. . 

"Michael," I said, "a girl friend of 
mine is having a party next Saturday 
afternoon. She asked me to bring a 
friend. If you ... if you'd like to 
come ... I mean, would you?" 

He looked at me suddenly in such 
a bitter, almost scornful way, that I 
wanted to turn and run. 

"Listen," he said, "you're a good 
kid. A ... a nice girl. I want to give 
you a piece of advice. Leave me alone. 
Don't be inviting me to parties, or 
anything like that." 

"Well," I said, "I only ... of course 
if you . . ." 

He forced a laugh, but it was still 
a bitter laugh. 

"I didn't mean to scare you," he 
said, "but . . . well anyway, I hope 
you enjoyed the bowling." 

"I did," I 



A Stars Over Hollywood Story 




said, "and thank you very much." 

"Don't mention it," he said. He drove 
off without another word. I felt as 
though he had meant, "Don't mention 
it to anybody that you were out with 
Michael Shannon." 

I thought that night was the end of 
everything between Michael and me. 
It wasn't. As I've said, fate seemed 
determined to bring the two of us 
together. 

It was a couple of weeks later that 
Mr. Bogart, Senior, called me into his 
office. The plant was very busy and 
he'd been looking for a girl to do 
night work — to take dictation when 
he or one of his assistants stayed late, 
and to spend the rest of her time as 
a proofreader. My work had been 
very good, he said, and he'd taken the 
trouble to learn that I had a good 
record at high school. 

He smiled. "Sometimes," he said, 
"a proofreader, has to show intelli- 
gence, and you seem to have it." 

Well, the job would pay nearly twice 

what I was getting, and I did want 

to make more money. My father was 

a tool and die maker, a good 

one, but he'd had 



Once in a while we'd spend a 
whole Sunday at a nearby lake 
resort, just the two of us. 



an accident, and would be laid up, the 
doctor said, for another six months. 
And my sister was only a child. I'd 
been a mother to her ever since our 
mother had died. 

Yes, I had good reason for accept- 
ing the job that chance had thrown 
in my lap. But I sometimes wonder 
whether I wouldn't have accepted it 
any way, just for the chance to work 
with Michael. 

I remember how my heart thumped 
when Mr. Bogart brought me into the 
printing plant to tell Michael I was the 
new proofreader. I expected him to 
hate me for it. But instead, he grinned. 
"We'll make a printer out of her 
yet," he said. And the way the old 
man smiled back at him, I could see 
that even he was under the spell of 
Michael's charm. Michael talked to 
him as though he were just a fellow 
worker in the printing plant. 

Michael was still grinning when Mr. 
Bogart left. "So it's the little bowling 
champ that's to be my new proof- 
reader," he said. "Well what d'you 
know!" 

Looking back, I realize I spent some 
of the happiest moments of my life 
with Michael in the print shop. Some 
of the happiest, and some of the worst. 
For under him the printing business 
became something glamorous and 
delightful. I learned to share 
his pleasure in a job well 
done — and I learned to 
fear his quick flashes 
of anger, as sudden 
and terrifying and 
brief as an April 
storm. 
He taught me 




how to mark up a proof in the printer's 
language, and to know the different 
type faces: Kabel, Bodoni, Girder, 
Gothic — names like these became a 
part of my daily language. And work- 
ing with him, day after day, I came 
to respect him for what he was — the 
best all round printing foreman in 
the state. He was without equal in 
the matching of colors, and he had a 
real understanding of every job in the 
plant, from typography to running a 
Kelly press. 

COMETIMES when we were work- 
^ ing together, he would stand very 
close to me, and our hands would 
touch. I felt then that by taking this 
job, by being so near to him every 
day, I had lost him. For he seemed 
to have grown accustomed to me, and 
I was sure that when our hands 
touched, there was not a spark of 
the thrill in it for him that the touch 
of his hand had for me. / 

Once when there was a brief rest 
period I overheard one of the press- 
men say, "The little proofreader sure 
has a case on our foreman," and I 
wanted to run away from that job and 
never come back. 

Michael drove me home one night 
when he and I had left a little later 
than the rest, and after that it was a 
regular thing. My house was on the 
way to the little apartment where he 
lived, and it was silly, he said, for me 
to take the bus. He didn't say he 
enjoyed my company, that he would 
rather have me with him than drive 
alone, but I knew that was partly be- 
hind his offer. It gave me a little 
hope. Such a little, for he craved 
company, that was all — any company 
would do. 

Once when I saw a light in the house, 
I brought him in and he met my father. 
I told him the next day what my father 
had said, that he seemed to be a fine 
fellow, and "for some reason it pleased 
Michael, I could tell. The next thing 
I knew he was asking me to go for 
a ride with him Sunday afternoon. 

"We can stop at a place I know and 
have dinner and dance, if you like," 
he said. 

I could hardly believe my ears. "I 
thought you told me once to leave 
you alone," I said, teasingly. 

"That was when I thought . . ." he 
began. He didn't finish. "It was just 
a fool idea I had," he said finally. 
"Forget it." 

Somehow I wished he hadn't said it. 
I knew what he meant, what he had 
left unsaid. It was that he had learned 
to look on me as a friend, a pal, and 
not someone he was apt to make love to. 

He called for me that Sunday and 
we went for a ride. And the first 
thing he said when we drove off was, 
"So your Dad thinks I'm okay, does he?" 

"He said you were a fine fellow," 
I reminded him. 

"That's funny," he said. "You know 
Julie — my wife's folks . . . they used 
to think I was sort of beneath her." 

So he was still married to Julie! 
I'd heard she was getting a divorce 
some time ago, and I'd learned never 
to ask him about her. When I did, he 
seemed to (Continued on page 81) 25 



got out and helped me out of the car 
as though he were Galahad and 1 
were a queen. It was such an elaborate 
gesture, the way he did it. Suddenly 
the thought occurred to me that it 
was something that girl, Julie, had 
taught him, that he was showing oK 
the manners he had learned. 

A shout went up when we entered 
the bowling alley. There was a group 
of men, a girl or two. Michael's friends, 
all of them. I could see how much they 
thought of him here. 



IF 



r E introduced me with a wave of 
his hand. He didn't bother to 
give me their names. 

"This is Ann," he said. 

"Ann Jerrold," I added. 

And just in the way they looked 
at me, I could see what an honor it 
was to be a friend of Michael's. 

So it was Michael who taught me 
how to bowl. Under his simple and 
expert guidance, I picked it up sooner 
than I had expected. He knew how 
to get to the center of things, to give 
you the basic details in a few simple 
words. 

Once in a while, when my aim was 
poor, he would take hold of my arm, 
standing close to me, blending his 
strong supple body with mine, to show 
me the rhythm of the swing, and the 
"follow through." 

I was a woman; I was human — I 
began to make mistakes just so he 
would show me again. Once, when I 
apologized for my "helplessness," he 
assured me I was learning much more 
quickly than — and he stopped, there. 
"Than another girl I taught once," 
he concluded. 

Much better than Julie? I wanted 
to ask it. That name had been in the 
back of my mind. I was sure he'd 
been going to say ". . . . better than 
Julie." 

He didn't refer again to the inci- 
dent of the spoiled letters. But I felt 
that this was his way of making it 
up to me, of making things all right. 

Once, while we were sitting on the 
bench, waiting our turn, he did men- 
tion the boss's son. I found out why 
he had been rushing so angrily into 
the office of young Harry Bogart. For 
Mr. Bogart, Junior, had gone to one 
of Michael's pressmen, and had given 
a change of instructions without let- 
ting Michael, the foreman, know. A 
foreman of a printing plant, Michael 
explained to me, was like the captain 
of a ship. He and he alone gave the 
orders. 

He sat there for a while without 
sa ying anything, and then I could see 
him swearing under his breath, and I 
knew the curses were meant for Harry 
Bogart — Harry, who couldn't forget 
that he was the boss's son, and that 
he had once been a star on his college 
football team. 

"One of these days I'll knock his 
ears off," Michael said. 

I was to remember that threat a 
little later. 
It was early morning, of course, when 



A Stars Over Hollywood 



he drove me home. I was tired, but I 
would have climbed a mountain with 
him that night, if he had asked me to. 
It was as though he were pouring 
some of his strength and vitality into 

"""So now you know what bowling 
is like," he said. "Did you enjoy it? 

I told him it was wonderful. And 
I said I liked being made a member 
of his inner circle. 

"My inner circle," he repeated. The 
phrase seemed to please him, and at 
the same time to strike a note of sad- 
ness somewhere in his memory. My 
inner circle," he said again. Then he 
mentioned Julie for the first tune. 1 
had a girl once," he said. "Her name 
was Julie. It was always her little 
circle of friends, not mine. To hear 
her talk you'd have thought I didnt 
have an inner circle, or anyway, none 
that amounted to anything." 

I didn't know what to say. I sat there 
beside him in the car, hoping he would 
tell me more, and not daring to ask. 
I reached out to put my hand on his 
arm, and then I .didn't, for he had 
stepped on the gas and was driving 
along at a reckless pace. 

He stopped in front of my door. I 
.had to point out the house, for my 
father and sister and I lived in one 
of those little houses built in a long 
row, all of them exactly alike. 

He didn't show any interest 
in where I lived — or for 
that matter, any further 
interest in me. It was 
as though our eve- 
ning was simply 
an end to the 
incident of 
the spoiled 



letters I didn't have to be a mind 
reader to see that he was thinking 
about Julie now, that he had been 
thinking of her all during the last 
part of our ride. 

I just couldn't say good-night to 
him like this, feeling that he would 
never want to take me out again. And 
then I got an idea. 

"Michael," I said, a girl friend of 
mine is having a party next Saturday 
afternoon. She asked me to bring a 
friend. If you ... if you'd like to 
come ... I mean, would you?" 

He looked at me suddenly in such 
a bitter, almost scornful way, that I 
wanted to turn and run. 

"Listen," he said, "you're a good 
kid. A ... a nice girl. I want to give 
you a piece of advice. Leave me alone. 
Don't be inviting me to parties, or 
anything like that." 

"Well," I said, "I only ... of course 
if you ..." 

He forced a laugh, but it was still 
a bitter laugh. 

"I didn't mean to scare you," he 
said, "but . . . well anyway, I hope 
you enjoyed the bowling." 

"I did," I 




said "and thank you very much." 

"Don't mention it," he said. He drove 
off without another word. I felt as 
though he had meant, "Don't mention 
it to anybody that you were out with 
Michael Shannon." 

I thought that night was the end of 
everything between Michael and me. 
It wasn't. As I've said, fate seemed 
determined to bring the two of us 
together. 

It was a couple of weeks later that 
Mr. Bogart, Senior, called me into his 
office. The plant was very busy and 
he'd been looking for a girl to do 
night work — to take dictation when 
he or one of his assistants stayed late, 
and to spend the rest of her time as 
a proofreader. My work had been 
very good, he said, and he'd taken the 
trouble to learn that I had a good 
record at high school. 

He smiled. "Sometimes," he said, 
"a proofreader, has to show intelli- 
gence, and you seem to have it." 

Well, the job would pay nearly twice 

what I was getting, and I did want 

to make more money. My father was 

a tool and die maker, a good 

one, but he'd had 



Once in a while we'd spend a 
whole Sunday at a nearby lake 
resort, just the two of 



an accident, and would be laid up the 
doctor said for another six months 
And my sister was only a child I'd 

™f"h a !T i h I r j° her ever sin <* our 
mother had died. 

• Ye fu : h ? d g00d reason for accept- 
ing the job that chance had thrown 
in my lap. But I sometimes wonder 
whether I wouldn't have accepted it 

an L^V just for the chance to work 
with Michael. 

I remember how my heart thumped 
when Mr. Bogart brought me into the 
printing plant to tell Michael I was the 
new proofreader. I expected him to 
hate me for it. But instead, he grinned. 
"We'll make a printer out of her 
yet," he said. And the way the old 
man smiled back at him, I could see 
that even he was under the spell of 
Michael's charm. Michael talked to 
him as though he were just a fellow 
worker in the printing plant. 

Michael was still grinning when Mr 
Bogart left. "So it's the little bowling 
champ that's to be my new proof- 
reader," he said. "Well what d'you 
know!" 

Looking back, I realize I spent some 
of the happiest moments of my life 
with Michael in the print shop. Some 
of the happiest, and some of the worst. 
For under him the printing business 
became something glamorous and 
delightful. I learned to share 
his pleasure in a job well 
done — and I learned to 
fear his quick flashes 
of anger, as sudden 
and terrifying and 
brief as an April 
storm. 
He taught me 




how to mark up a proof in the printer's 
language, and to know the different 
type faces: Kabel, Bodoni, Girder, 
Gothic— names like these became a 
part of my daily language. And work- 
ing with him, day after day, I came 
to respect him for what he was— the 
best all round printing foreman in 
the state. He was without equal in 
the matching of colors, and he had a 
real understanding of every job in the 
plant, from typography to running a 
Kelly press. 

COMETIMES when we were work- 
^ ing together, he would stand very 
close to me, and our hands would 
touch. I felt then that by taking this 
job, by being so near to him every 
day, I had lost him. For he seemed 
to have grown accustomed to me, and 
I was sure that when our hands 
touched, there was not a spark of 
the thrill in it for him that the touch 
of his hand had for me. 

Once when there was a brief rest 
period I overheard one of the press- 
men say, "The little proofreader sure 
has a case on our foreman," and I 
wanted to run away from that job and 
never Come back. 

Michael drove me home one night 
when he and I had left a little later 
than the rest, and after that it was a 
regular thing. My house was on the 
way to the little apartment where he 
lived, and it was silly, he said, for me 
to take the bus. He didn't say he 
enjoyed my company, that he would 
rather have me with him than drive 
alone, but I knew that was partly be- 
hind his offer. It gave me a little 
hope. Such a little, for he craved 
company, that was all — any company 
would do. 

Once when I saw a light in the house, 
I brought him in and he met my father. 
I told him the next day what my father 
had said, that he seemed to be a fine 
fellow, and for some reason it pleased 
Michael, I could tell. The next thing 
I knew he was asking me to go for 
a ride with him Sunday afternoon. 

"We can stop at a place I know and 
have dinner and dance, if you like," 
he said. 

I could hardly believe my ears. "I 
thought you told me once to leave 
you alone," I said, teasingly. 

"That was when I thought . . ." he 
began. He didn't finish. "It was just 
a fool idea I had," he said finally. 
"Forget it." 

Somehow I wished he hadn't said it. 
I knew what he meant, what he had 
left unsaid. It was that he had learned 
to look on me as a friend, a pal, and 
not someone he was apt to make love to. 

He called for me that Sunday and 
we went for a ride. And the first 
thing he said when we drove off was, 
"So your Dad thinks I'm okay, does he?" 

"He said you were a fine fellow," 
I reminded him. 

"That's funny," he said. "You know 
Julie— my wife's folks . . . they used 
to think I was sort of beneath her." 

So he was still married to Julie! 
I'd heard she was getting a divorce 
some time ago, and I'd learned never 
to ask him about her. When I did, he 
seemed to (Continued on page 81) 25 



1 DIDN'T know that a human being's 
eyes could look the way Steven's 
eyes did the night I met him. 
Drained of all feeling or even the pos- 
sibility of feeling, his eyes seemed to 
be — past love, past fear, past pain, past 
hope. His eyes looked the way I had 
thought my heart had felt, until I met 
Steven, until I learned what real suf- 
fering can be, making my own suffering 
a small thing beside it. Steven's suf- 
fering had gone beyond the point where 
you feel that there is nothing left to 
live for, to the point where you wish 
you weren't alive, but the dull apathy 
which has closed over you doesn't let 
you do anything so positive, so actual, 
as taking your own life. 

When I first saw him, he was sitting 
in a far corner of the U.S.O. Canteen 
where I was serving. Some other sol- 
dier, I learned later, had brought him 
there in a sympathetic attempt to rouse 
him to remembrance of the joy of being 
alive, and when the attempt had failed, 
had dumped him there on the straight 
little settee in the corner and gone 
his way. 

I walked across to the solitary figure 
and said, with some of the gaiety I 
was always able to muster for my 
work here, "You don't look like the 
wallflower type — how about dancing 
with me?" 

And then he turned his eyes up to 
me, and I saw what was in them. I 
couldn't find anything to say, but I 
dropped down beside him on the hard 
seat, as if I knew, even then, that 
I could never go away and leave him 
to face the world alone. 

He turned a little, and blinked at me 
as if he had entered a lighted room 
from the dark. After a moment he said. 
"Hello. I was thinking, I guess." His 
voice was dull, too, and spilled the 
words out carelessly, as if they were 
not worth the trouble of speaking them. 
Then he looked at me again and, as 
if it were the most natural thing in the 
world, he put his hand in mine, simply 
and trustingly, as a child who is lost 
in a crowd puts his faith in the first 
adult who has the sympathy and takes 
the time to stop and talk to him. 

In the face of Steven's eyes I could 
summon no tact, no delicacy. I heard 
my own voice saying bluntly, "What's 
the matter?" 

There was another little silence, as 
if words took a longer time to reach 
Steven than other people. At last he 
answered, "Don't talk about what's 
wrong with me. That's what I'm trying 
to forget. If you want to talk, talk 
about you. You look nice. I'd like to 



hear you talk about you." He blinked 
again, looked at me more closely. Per- 
haps he was actually seeing me for the 
first time. "There's something wrong 
with you, too," he said. 

I realized then that it would not be 
just kindness to talk to him. But to 
talk trivialities would be no good, 
either — no talk about the weather, or 
the music issuing from the juke box 
across the room. No "How cold it's 
been for April, hasn't it?" or "Don't 
you think that new song is sort of 
silly?" It would have to be something 
that would make him think, make him 
answer— make him /eel. And besides, 
somehow I knew that with Steven, sick 
or well, you'd never have to dress your 
conversation with the ribbons and lace 
of conventionalism. With him you could 
talk as if he'd known you all your life, 
as if he knew the inmost workings of 
your mind, the smallest secret places 
of your heart. 

And so I told him. "Yes, there's 
something wrong with me, too. I — I'm 
in love." 

I saw a flicker in his eyes, then, and 
I knew. I had his attention, that he was 
beginning really to listen to me. My 
own feelings were such a strange mix- 
ture — a tight, unreasonable fear that 
just looking at Steven had brought me, 
and a warm, blessed release in talking 
at last about the hurt that was eating 
my heart away. 

My voice hurried on. "Dick's my 
foster brother. His mother and father 
adopted me when I was just a baby, 
and we've been brought up like brother 
and sister — lived together all our 
lives. . . ." 

Sitting there, with Steven's hand in 
mine, I felt again some of the happi- 
ness I'd known as a child. The pleasant 
white house in the suburbs in which 
we'd lived, Mother and Dad and Dick 
and I, with the stretch of green lawn 
in front, and the garden behind, di- 
vided half-and-half, flowers for Mother 
and vegetables for Dad. There had 
been a swing in the big tree that shaded 
the lower end of the backyard, and 
Dick used to push me in it, standing 
uncomplaining at the task sometimes 
when he probably would rather have 
been playing with some of the boys. 
But once, I remembered, he had pushed 
me too high, and I'd fallen. And instead 
of comforting me, as I'd expected him 
to do, he'd laughed and called me a 
crybaby. 

It's funny how you remember little 
things almost better than you remem- 
ber big ones — little things like the hair 
ribbon Dick had bought me one 



Christmas with the first money he'd 
ever earned, and how Dick had liked 
dancing class and I'd hated it — just the 
opposite of the way it should have 
been — and how mad Dick was when I 
went out on my first real date, because 
it was with a boy he didn't approve of. 
I remembered picnics and parties and 
just pleasant day-by-day living, until 
the lump in my throat grew until I 
could hardly force words past it. "We 
had — we had a wonderful time when we 
were children," I told Steven lamely. 

Steven's eyes were brighter now, and 
I knew with a quick rush of relief that 
he had stopped thinking about himself 
and was thinking of me. His hand 
tightened over mine, and he said, softly, 
"Why should being in love "make you 
sad?" 

Why? If I could only have burdened 
this lonely soldier with the story I 
could have told him so exactly — I could 
name the very night it began: three 




"You are more than 
love, you are life to 
me," Steven told her, 
and she knew she must 
forget Dick — she must 
learn a new happiness 



years ago, when I was sixteen, but it 
might as well have been three days 
ago, for I could remember every word, 
every gesture, every look that passed 
between Dick and me. 

That was the night I found out what 
was wrong with me, the night I found 
out that I was in love with Dick. It 
sounded simple, but it wasn't simple! 
It was complex and complicated and — 
and frightening! 



26 



mm My True Story Radio Drama 



i 



/ carry their pictures to- 
gether in the locket I wear 
Steven, my husband — and Dick 




I'd had a wonderful time, that night. 
A group of us had gone dancing, and 
we'd had permission to stay out until 
one in the morning — the first time I'd 
ever been out so late. I'd gone with 
Ralph Emory — Ralph, who had lived 
down the block from us all our lives, 
who'd played with us when we were 
children. 

My feet were still moving to rhythm 
when I slipped into the dark hall and 



walked silently toward the stairs. But 
Dick's voice came out of the dim re- 
cesses of the living room to stay me — 
and that voice was like cold water 
thrown on the warm remembrance of 
the fun I'd had that night. 

"Susan!" The light he snapped on 
dispelled the last of the magic. "This 
is a fine hour for you to be getting in!" 

I turned to face him. "I had Mother's 
permission to stay out till one," I told 



him sharply. "And what business of 
yours is it, anyway, I'd like to know?" 
But I heard my own voice fading 
away, because I was seeing Dick then 
with new eyes. It was as if I'd never 
noticed before how tall he was, how 
straight, as if I'd never before realized 
how blue his eyes were, how his hair 
lay close over his ears like the feathers 
on the wings of a bird, how the ears 
themselves were strangely shaped, a 



27 



II 



little pointed. I walked slowly across 
the hall to him, magnetized. Oh, he may 
have dispelled the magic of the eve- 
ning that was behind me, but he was 
binding me to him forever now with a 
new magic of his own. 

I felt that he must surely hear the 
pounding of my heart, see how my 
hands were trembling. And he must 
have caught the change in my voice 
when I said, very softly, "I'm sorry, 
Dick," for the anger left him, too. He 
put out his hand and with a doubled 
fist struck me lightly, mockingly on 
the chin — an old familiar gesture of his. 

ALL RIGHT," he said. "Get up to bed 
■** and get your beauty sleep — you'll 
be an old woman before your time at 
this rate." But before I turned, his 
hand slid down to my shoulder and 
tightened on it, just" for a moment. 
Then I wrenched myself away and 
flew up the stairs — to lie awake, dream- 
ing of Dick all night. 

I raised my eyes to Steven's then, 
seeking understanding in them. "Dick 
— who might as well have been my 
brother, who was just like a brother to 
me — and I fell in love with him." 

But it was all right, then, I had told 
myself, because it was my secret. I 
wouldn't ever let Dick know. I realized, 
even then, that I mustn't ever let any- 
one know. Mother and Dad wouldn't 
understand — they'd think it was wrong. 
Probably Dick would, too. And as for 
our friends and neighbors — well, half 
of them didn't even know that I was 
adopted. They thought I was really 
Dick's sister. 

Stoven was smiling at me now, a 
small smile, curving lips that seemed 
almost to have forgotten how, almost 
as if he could read my mind. 

"How long ago did all this happen?" 
he asked. 

"Two years ago," I told him. 

Two years that were partly heaven 
and partly far removed from it! Because 
that . night marked the beginning of 

My Heart Remembers was suggested by 
an original drama heard on My True Story, 
daily at 3:15, over the Blue Network. 




what seemed to me an utterly incom- 
prehensible attitude toward me on 
Dick's part. Oh, we'd squabbled as 
kids do before that, and once in a while 
we'd had a real argument. But after 
that night we fought. There's no other 
word for it. It seemed that there wasn't 
anything in the world I could do right 
as far as Dick was concerned. He 
didn't like my friends. If I bought a 
blue dress I should have bought pink. 
If I went out he didn't like it, and if I 
stayed home he teased me about being 
unpopular. I was getting plump, and 
then, when I dieted, I was too thin and 
scrawny. 

Looking back on it, it seems to me 
that I spent at least half my time crying 
in my room, those two years, trying to 
wash away with tears the hurts Dick 
had inflicted on me. And how many 
times my heart cried out to him, "Dick 
— Dick, don't shout at me — take me in 
your arms and kiss me, Dick — love me!" 

I didn't understand, didn't under- 
stand that Dick had a secret too, and 
that in his own way he was fighting 
against it, hiding it, just as I was hiding 
my love for him from the eyes of a 
world that would mistake its meaning. 
I didn't understand — until one night, 
that still has for me all the unreality 
of a. dream — the culmination of all I'd 
dreamed since the moment I'd known 
I loved Dick. It was late — probably 
three or four in the morning — and a 
high moon outside sent long fingers of 
pale, ghostly light through the win- 
dows. I was restless, and I tried to 
blame my restlessness, as I so often did, 
on hunger, and I decided to go down to 
the kitchen. My groping feet found my 
mules, and without bothering to turn 
on the light to locate my robe, I slipped 
out of the room and down the hall. 

It was on the stair landing, with the 
moon showing pale through the old 
leaded glass window there, that I met 
Dick. I stood still a moment, staring at 
him, conscious of my light pajamas, 
and of the fact that he, too, had left 
his room without a robe. Then, after 
a moment, we said, in chorus, "I was 
hungry, and — " 

We stopped, on a little duet of foolish 
laughter, and then the laughter died 
away, leaving us in silence that was 
thick and heavy, like a swirling cur- 
tain of black velvet. Suddenly I began 
to tremble to the beat of the quick 
thudding of my heart. I tried to edge 
past Dick, to get downstairs and away, 
but his hand came out and caught my 
wrist, and his voice, thick and strange, 
cried, "Wait!" 

He pulled me around to face him, 
and we stood there, not thinking, not 
breathing. Then his voice again, crying 
my name like a heart-wrung prayer. 

"Oh, Susan!" And I was where I had 
longed to be — in his arms, his hungry 
mouth closing my eyes with kisses, 
bruising my lips with a delicious pain. 
His words were little stars in the time- 
less heaven into which we had slipped 
— "Susan, dear! My darling — my baby 
sister!" 

That was the word that broke the 
spell. We fell apart then, and stood, 
strange and still and cold for a mo- 
ment that was whisper-short and long 



as forever. Then I turned and fled, up 
the stairs again, and into my room, to 
bury my hot face in the pillow, to hate 
myself and Dick and the world. 

I had forgotten where I was, for- 
gotten the man with the pain in his 
eyes, forgotten eyerything but the 
memory of that one sweet moment. 
The pressure of Steven's fingers on 
mine awakened me to the realization 
of where I was — and to the realization 
that I had almost told to a stranger the 
secret I had shared with no one else 
in the world. 

It was hard to raise my eyes to 
Steven's, but when I did I knew once 
again that he could never be a stranger, 
that he was one of those rare people 
whom you seem to have been born 
knowing, who, when you meet them, 
are closer to you than the people you've 
known all your lives. And I knew, too, 
looking at him, that I had succeeded in 
making him forget himself. His pale, 
flat-planed face had regained some of 
the animation which once must have 
lighted it. There was warmth in his 
eyes — compassion, which above all 
makes you forget yourself in pity for 
someone else. Now he was — well, he 
was human again, a man, alive. 

"Why did you come here, to Evans- 
ton?" he asked gently. 

How could I tell him — or anyone — 
about the next morning when I knew 
so surely that it was impossible for 
Dick and me to go on living in the 
same house. It was simpler for me to 
go — simpler for me to say I wanted to 
take a job in the city, to get a job 
which would require my living close 
by. So I went away and went to work, 
and — "And," I said out Joud, because 
something in his eyes made me say it, 
"it's been eight months since I left. I've 
almost forgotten." 

But that was a lie. 

We were silent for a little while after 
that, and I suddenly realized that I 
didn't even know this man's name. Of 
course, I've been calling him Steven 
all the while I've been telling you this, 
but you must remember that I had just 
met him a little bit before, just sat 
down to talk to him, a strange and 
lonely soldier. 
"I — I don't know your name," I fal- 
tered. "How funny, to talk to you like 
this, and;—" 

He smiled again, that gentle, sweet 
smile. "Not strange at all. Maybe we 
were born for tonight, you and I, and 
all our lives have just been leading up 
to this meeting." Then he laughed, but 
I knew that the laugh was only for me, 
to keep me from thinking he was too 
serious — and I knew, as well, that he 
believed what he said. 

Disengaging his fingers from mine, 
he got to his feet. "My name is Steven 
Day. And yours is Susan — Susan what?" 

"Susan Lothrop." 

"And now that we've been formally 
introduced, let's get away from here, 
Susan. We're a couple of lost people — 
let's go walk along the riverbank, and 
maybe we can find ourselves." 

Silently, yet somehow bound to- 
gether, we left the big, crowded, smoky 
room, and walked down the quiet 
streets to the (Continued on page 69) 



IN LIVING PORTRAITS 



LONE JIMMY 



In its western setting of wheat fields, of glistening beaver ponds, with 
its hills of ever-changing mood and color, see the people of Judith 
Mountains Country that you meet daily on this true-toAife radio story 



VI 










J -SK^B.' W 













Ifc' 



*»»*^ / 
















Lone Journey, written by Sandra and Peter Michael, is heard daily at 9:45 A.M., CWT, over NBC, sponsored by Dreft. 
Fields of golden wheat, as in this Montana scene, are typical of Lone Journey's real life setting near Lewistown, Montana 

msmm 





\ 



30 



WOLFE BENNETT was born on the Spear-T Ranch. He was educated in Illinois, became an archi- 
tect and married beautiful, ambitious Nita Lord. They lived together in Evanston, Illinois, for six years 
when suddenly Nita decided that their marriage was a failure. Disillusioned and saddened, Wolfe 
returned to Montana. During the next year, he met and fell in love with Sydney Sherwood, who was 
visiting her uncle. Then Nita came from Chicago to visit Wolfe at the ranch a.nd they were reunited. 

(Played by Reese Taylor) 



SYDNEY SHERWOOD MACKENZIE is the niece of Henry Newman, an old friend and neighbor of 
Wolfe Bennett's. Soon after Nita's and Wolfe's reconciliation, Sydney married a young music school 
director, Lansing Mackenzie, who is now in the Solomons with the United States Army. Before her 
marriage she was a piano teacher and when Lansing went away, Sydney decided to continue giving 
lessons. She now has a studio in the same building with Wolfe, and they are very good friends. 

(Played by Laurette Fillbrandt) 




LEILA MATTHEWS is a mod- 
ern young ranch wife. She 
and Wolfe Bennett grew up to- 
gether in the valley. They 
went to the same school and 
everyone supposed they would 
some day get married. But 
Wolfe went away to college, 
met and married Nita. This 
was tragedy for Leila, but 
being a very sensible person, 
she eventually married young 
JIM MATTHEWS (upper 
right), a nice, not too bright 
neighbor boy. She and Jim are 
contented on their ranch and 
have two very fine children. 
(Leila played by Genelle Gibbs ) 
(Jim played by Frank Dane) 



32 




HENRY NEWMAN, left, is one 
of radio's most loved char- 
acters. In the Lone Journey 
story he is a bachelor sheep 
rancher, a philosopher, good 
neighbor, wise counsellor to 
the friends who come naturally 
to him for advice. The char- 
acter of Old Henry Newman 
is based on a real-life Montana 
rancher by that name. The 
actor who portrays him on the 
program falls naturally into 
the part, since he has many of 
the qualities that have en- 
deared this story of the West 
and Henry Newman to so many 
listeners these many years. 
(Played by Cliff Soubier) 



MRS. KING AND KYLE are 
mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. 
Jessie King, almost single-handed 
owns and operates a Montana cattle 
ranch. She and Henry Newman are 
great friends. Over a cup of Henry's 
special and wonderful tea, these two 
old timers can always settle the 
world's ills and come to a happy 
awareness of life's goodness. Mrs. 
King has a son in the army. Kyle 
King is his wife, and she has come 
to live on her mother-in-law's ranch 
for the duration. Kyle is a rather 
misunderstood, rather tragic figure. 

(Mrs. King played by 
Bess McCammon) 

(Kyle King, played by 
Geraldine Kay) 




MEL TANNER was foreman of 
the Spear-T Ranch before he 
joined the Army, where he is 
now serving as a technical ser- 
geant. Mel is a confidant and 
old friend of Wolfe's who con- 
siders him the salt of the earth. 
He is sincere, unselfish, and 
friendly, the kind of man you 
always think of when the peo- 
ple of the "great open spaces 
of the West" are mentioned. 
(Played by Dewitt McBride) 



33 




What can come af loving another woman's husband but 
bitter regret? Mary knew that — still she cherished a 
hope that somehow their love would find a way 



I ELBOWED my way out of the bus, 
stepping on the toes of a large lady 
who only glared at my hurried 
apology. I couldn't really blame her. 
We'd stood all the way out from town, 
jostling each other, swaying back and 
forth, being pushed and pulled around 
every time someone else got on or off, 
until it was as hard to keep your temper 
as your footing. 

As soon as I was on the sidewalk I 
started up the block, just not actually 
running. The super-market closed at 
six, and it was ten minutes to, already. 
At that, I was lucky tonight. Often 
enough I had to stay five or ten minutes 
late at the office, and as a result, those 
nights Margie and I dined on deli- 
catessen food or something out of a 
can — neither of which we could afford. 
But at the thought of Margie, as 
always, my body felt a little lighter — 
just as if her chubby, five-year-old 
magic had lifted an actual physical 
load off my shoulders. The worries 
about money, the tired end-of-the-day 
feeling, the loneliness — these weren't 
half so bad, any of them, simply be- 
cause of Margie's existence. It was 
funny, I thought, that a little girl could 
complicate one's existence so much, and 
still be so infinitely precious. 

The market was crowded, and I went 
straight to the meaft counter first, dig- 
ging into my purse for the precious 
ration book and equally precious 
money. I hoped they had some liver; 
the doctor had said Margie needed it 
once a week. ... I looked in dismay at 
the people ahead of me. By the time 
I was waited on the vegetable counter 
would be closed, and I had to get some 
kind of vegetable! 

I edged in closer. I hated to be the 
kind of person who tries to get waited 
on ahead of her turn, but — 

One of the two butchers behind the 



big glass counter glanced at me inquir- 
ingly, and I opened my mouth. But I 
wasn't quick enough. A feminine voice 
beside me said grimly, "I've been 
standing here for ten minutes, young 
woman, if you please!" 

Feeling like a criminal, I stepped 
back while the woman gave her order. 
There was a, man on the other side of 
me, a tall man with a kind, humorous 
mouth. He was vaguely familiar, but 
I didn't know why. And suddenly, in 
a conspiratorial tone, he spoke. 

"I think they'll wait on me in a 
minute or two. If you'll just tell me 
what you want I'll get it." 

"Oh, would you?" I said breathlessly. 
"Then I could go over to the vegetables 
and — Two slices of calves' liver, if they 
have any, and if they haven't — oh, I 
guess a couple of shoulder lamb chops." 
Lamb chops were extravagant, but 
there wasn't any sense in getting some- 
thing that would take too long to cook. 
I poked my ration book at him. "Here, 
you'd better take this." 

"Aren't you afraid I'll run off with 
it?" he asked with a smile. 

"Why — " About to hurry away, I 
stopped and looked at him. He was 
quite right — it was foolish to give your 
ration book to a perfect stranger. But 
in this case — "No," I said honestly, 
and found myself laughing up at him. 
"Not in the least." 

Before I had finished at the vegetable 
counter, he joined me there. "Liver," 
he announced proudly. "And here's 
your ration book." Without asking me 
about it, he picked my bundle off the 
counter and added it to the ones already 
in his arms. "All ready?" he asked. 

It came to me, then, where I'd seen 
him before. "Of course!" I said aloud. 
"You live up the street from me, don't 
you? — in the white house with the blue 
shutters, on the corner." 



"That's right," he said, holding the 
swinging door to the street open with 
his foot so I could pass in front of him. 
"And you live in the brown house with 
the wistaria vine, in the middle of the 
block. You have a little girl who is just 
about the prettiest thing I've ever 
seen." 

I always told myself I didn't care 
whether Margie was pretty or not, as 
long as she was healthy^and so it was 
foolish to feel such a warm glow ofj 
pleasure at his praise. "It's nice of you; 
to say that." 

"Well, it's true," he answered simply. 
We were walking side by side through 
the busy little suburban shopping dis- 
trict, the cool spring breeze sharp on 
our faces. "You work in town?" he; 
asked. 



34 



r A Manhattan at Midnight Story 




'Yes. I'm a stenographer at Schley 
and Mortimer's." 

"Must make it hard for you, with the 
little girl to take care of." 

"It is hard, a little," I said. "Margie's 
awfully good, and can take care of her- 
self very well, for only five years old, 
jut I can't quite leave her alone. And 
of course I have to work — my hus- 
band," I said quietly, "was killed in 
an accident at the factory where he 
worked, two years ago." 

"Oh — I see," he said, and I hurried 
on. "Mrs. Boland, next door, has been 
looking after Margie in the daytime, 



but she's going to work in a war plant 
in a week, and after that I don't know 
just what I will do. . . . And then, of 
course," I added, wanting for some 
reason to go on talking, "the shopping 
is a nuisance. If you hadn't helped me 
tonight, I guess we'd have gone without 
meat or vegetables, one or the other." 
"I'm glad I happened to be there. 
My wife usually does the shopping, but 
she wasn't feeling so well today so I 
picked up some things on my way 
home." He chuckled under his breath. 
"What do you bet I've bought all the 
wrong things?" 



"That's right," he said. 
"You live in the house 
with the wistaria vine." 



"Probably," I said. "Men usually do, 
don't they?" 

It was pleasant, walking up the street 
with him. He had a natural gift for 
friendliness," and I felt as if I'd known 
him a long time. In a very few minutes 
— the five or six it took to get to the 
corner- where he lived — he'd told me 
that his name was Blaine Edwards, that 
he was an accountant at the Drysdale 
plant, that he and his wife had lived 
out here for three years, and that he 
didn't think he'd try putting in any 
peas this year, he'd had such poor luck 
with them last. But his corn — well, 



35 



What can come af loving another woman's husband but 
bitter regret? Mary knew that-still she cherished a 
hope that somehow their love would find a way 



I ELBOWED my way out of the bus, 
stepping on the toes of a large lady 
who only glared at my hurried 
apology. I couldn't really blame her. 
We'd stood all the way out from town, 
jostling each other, swaying back and 
forth, being pushed and pulled around 
every time someone else got on or off, 
until it was as hard to keep your temper 
as your footing. 

As soon as I was on the sidewalk I 
started up the block, just not actually 
running. The super-market closed at 
six, and it was ten minutes to, already. 
At that, I was lucky tonight. Often 
enough I had to stay five or ten minutes 
late at the office, and as a result, those 
nights Margie and I dined on deli- 
catessen food or something out of a 
can — neither of which we could afford. 

But at the thought of Margie, as 
always, my body felt a little lighter- 
just as if her chubby, five-year-old 
magic had lifted an actual physical 
load off my shoulders. The worries 
about money, the tired end-of-the-day 
feeling, the loneliness — these weren't 
half so bad, any of them, simply be- 
cause of Margie's existence. It was 
funny, I thought, that a little girl could 
complicate one's existence so much, and 
still be so infinitely precious. 

The market was crowded, and I went 
straight to the meaft counter first, dig- 
ging into my purse for the precious 
ration book and equally precious 
money. I hoped they had some liver; 
the doctor had said Margie needed it 
once a week. ... I looked in dismay at 
the people ahead of me. By the time 
I was waited on the vegetable counter 
would be closed, and I had to get some 
kind of vegetable! 

I edged in closer. I hated to be the 
kind of person who tries to get waited 
on ahead of her turn, but — 

One of the two butchers behind the 



big glass counter glanced at me inquir- 
ingly, and I opened my mouth. But 1 
wasn't quick enough. A feminine voice 
beside me said grimly, "I've been 
standing here for ten minutes, young 
woman, if you please!" 

Feeling like a criminal, I stepped 
back while the woman gave her order. 
There was a. man on the other side of 
me, a tall man with a kind, humorous 
mouth. He was vaguely familiar, but 
I didn't know why. And suddenly, in 
a conspiratorial tone, he spoke. 

"I think they'll wait on me in a 
minute or two. If you'll just tell me 
what you want I'll get it." 

"Oh, would you?" I said breathlessly. 
"Then I could go over to the vegetables 
an d— Two slices of calves' liver, if they 
have any, and if they haven't — oh, I 
guess a couple of shoulder lamb chops." 
Lamb chops were extravagant, but 
there wasn't any sense in getting some- 
thing that would take too long to cook. 
I poked my ration book at him. "Here, 
you'd better take this." 

"Aren't you afraid I'll run off with 
it?" he asked with a smile. 

"Why — " About to hurry away, I 
stopped and looked at him. He was 
quite right — it was foolish to give your 
ration book to a perfect stranger. But 
in this case — "No," I said honestly, 
and found myself laughing up at him. 
"Not in the least." 

Before I had finished at the vegetable 
counter, he joined me there. "Liver," 
he announced proudly. "And here's 
your ration book." Without asking me 
about it, he picked my bundle off the 
counter and added it to the ones already 
in his arms. "All ready?" he asked. 

It came to me, then, where I'd seen 
him before. "Of course!" I said aloud. 
"You live up the street from me, don't 
you?— in the white house with the blue 
shutters, on the corner." 




"That's right," he said, holding the 
swinging door to the street open with 
his foot so I could pass in front of him. 
"And you live in the brown house with 
the wistaria vine, in the middle of the 
block. You have a little girl who is just 
about the prettiest thing I've ever 
seen." 

I always told myself I didn't care 
whether Margie was pretty or not, as 
long as she was healthy — and so it was 
foolish to feel such a warm glow of 
pleasure at his praise. "It's nice of you 
to say that." 

"Well, it's true," he answered simply' 
We were walking side by side through 
the busy little suburban shopping dis- 
trict, the cool spring breeze sharp on 
our faces. "You work in town?" he 
asked. 



A Manhattan at Midnight Story 



"Yes. I'm a stenographer at Schley 
and Mortimer's." 

"Must make it hard for you, with the 
little girl to take care of." 

"It is hard, a little," I said. "Margie's 
awfully good, and can take care of her- 
self very well, for only five years old, 
but I can't quite leave her alone. And 
of course I have to work— my hus- 
band," I said quietly, "was killed in 
an accident at the factory where he 
worked, two years ago." 

'°^~ * see ." h e said, and I hurried 
°n- Mrs. Boland, next door, has been 
looking after Margie in the daytime, 



but she's going to work in a war plant 
in a week, and after that I don't know 
just what I will do. . . . And then, of 
course," I added, wanting for some 
reason to go on talking, "the shopping 
is a nuisance. If you hadn't helped me 
tonight, I guess we'd have gone without 
meat or vegetables, one or the other." 
"I'm glad I happened to be there. 
My wife usually does the shopping, but 
she wasn't feeling so well today so I 
picked up some things on my way 
home." He chuckled under his breath. 
"What do you bet I've bought all the 
wrong things?" 



'That's right," he said. 
"You live in the house 
with the wistaria vine." 



"Probably," I said. "Men usually do, 
don't they?" 

It was pleasant, walking up the street 
with him. He had a natural gift for 
friendliness, and I felt as if I'd known 
him a long time. In a very few minutes 
— the five or six it took to get to the 
corner where he lived — he'd told me 
that his name was Blaine Edwards, that 
he was an accountant at the Drysdale 
plant, that he and his wife had lived 
out here for three years, and that he 
didn't think he'd try putting in any 
peas this year, he'd had such poor luck 
with them last. But his corn — well, 



35 



— 



just wait until I tasted it, next July! 

That — the mention of food — reminded 
me. "Oh — I didn't pay you for the 
liver. How much was it?" 

"Thirty-five cents," he said matter- 
of-factly, and I liked that, too. It would 
have been — unpleasant, if he'd thought 
it necessary to be gallant and say that 
such a small sum didn't matter. Some 
men would. 

TIE took off his hat to say goodbye, 
*■*■ and I really saw his face for the 
first time. It was thin, like his body. 
It was the face of a mature man — he 
must be about thirty, I guessed— but it 
was boyish, too. His eyes were a very 
clear gray, with thick, dark lashes, and 
looking into them I had the impression 
that he loved laughter and gayety, but 
hadn't had a great deal of either. 

"Look," he said suddenly. "One nice 
thing about not having any gasoline to 
go riding is that we have a chance to 
meet our neighbors. Why don't you 
and the little girl come over Sunday 
afternoon, about four? We'll have a 
bite to eat, and you and Bernice can 
get acquainted." 

"I'd like that very much," I said, and 
meant it. 

"Good. We'll expect you." 

I went on then, warmed by his part- 
ing smile, and at the same time feeling 
once more the loneliness I knew so 
well. Oh, Ned, Ned, I cried soundlessly. 
I still miss you, darling. Days like this, 
with spring whispering in the air — 
times like this, when I see men coming 
home to their wives — I miss you most 
of all. It doesn't seem to matter, so 
much, that our marriage was never 
what it should have been — we were 
both too headstrong, too bent on hav- 
ing our own ways. But we were learn- 
ing. If we'd had more time, we could 
have built a life together . . . maybe. 
Maybe. 

I ran up the front steps of my own 
little house. It was smaller than Mr. 
Edwards', and not nearly so well cared- 
for, and the rent was higher than it 
should have been, but I considered 
myself lucky to have found a place at 
all. Of course, if I'd been alone, I could 
have lived in a single room in town, 
but with Margie I really needed a 
place in the suburbs. Ned and I had 
always said we wouldn't let a child of 
ours grow up in the city. . . . 

In the hallway I caught sight of my- 
self in the diamond-shaped mirror of 
the old-fashioned hatrack — and for a 
second I looked at the reflection as dis- 
passionately as I would have inspected 
a stranger. You're twenty-eight, Mary 
Manning, I thought, and darned if you 
don't look it, and more. Fine, soft yel- 
low hair can be lovely when you take 
care of it, but not when it's just combed 
out any old way. All right, so you can't 
afford beauty parlors — you could find 



2 



A 



36 



1 

From a radio drama entitled, "The 
Little Things," by Edward Jurist, 
heard Wednesday on Manhattan at 
Midnight, at 8:30 P.M., on The Blue 
Network, sponsored by Energine. 



i 



an hour to fix it yourself, couldn't you? 
And you always did look like a ghost 
without lipstick ... no wonder Mr. 
Edwards took pity on you. 

"Margie!" I called, and heard the ice- 
box door slam in the kitchen. She came 
running, and launched herself into my 
arms as if she'd been shot out of a gun. 

"Mummy, you're late!" — accusingly. 
"I was just deciding I'd have to cook 
supper myself. I was going to make a 
pie and a chocolate cake and roast beef 
and mashed potatoes. . . ." 

"Mmm — sounds good," I told her. 
"Maybe I'd better let you go ahead 
with the job." 

"The prettiest thing I'd ever seen," 
he'd called Margie. Well, he was right! 
Funny he didn't have any children of 
his own — and I was sure he didn't, be- 
cause Margie would have known, and 



reported on their presence, if he had. 
On Sunday afternoon at four o'clock 
I'd washed and brushed my hair until 
it positively shimmered, and I'd re- 
membered the lipstick. I'd warned 
Margie to be on her best behavior, and 
I'd dressed her and myself in crisp 
cotton dresses which felt wonderfully 
fresh and light in these first warm days 
of spring. The minute we entered the 
Edwards' house I was glad I'd taken 
the trouble to see that both Margie anc 
I looked our best, because the at- 
mosphere of Mrs. Edwards' home — not 
once did I think of it as his home — saic 
plainly it was used to nothing but th« 
best. 

-The living room was like something 
cut out of a magazine, printed in full 
colors. The hardwood floors gleamec 
around slippery oases of throw-rugs, 




the slip covers had just that second 
come from the iron, the snowy-white 
organdie curtains were looped back to 
frame the windows in precise sym- 
metry, and if there was a speck of dust 
anywhere I was sure it would have 
taken a detective to find it. 

Mrs. Edwards herself was a little 
dark-haired woman, with eyes to 
match, and delicate, finely-cut features. 
She was pretty, and she certainly was 
hospitable to me, a comparative 
stranger. On a table in front of the 
window she'd laid out a buffet supper 
of delicious food — beans baked to a 
molasses brown, ham in shaving-thin 
slices, a salad bowl of lettuce, tomatoes, 
asparagus and watercress, tea and little 
cakes. All of it tasted as good as it 
looked. 

While we ate, I told her how lovely 



I thought her room was, and when she 
made a small deprecatory sound her 
husband said proudly: 

"Yes — and Bernice made the curtains 
and slip-covers herself . . . and her 
dress, too." 

"It's a beautiful dress," I said — and 
it was; if it was also a little too frilly 
to be quite right for her edged good 
looks, that didn't alter the fact that 
she'd worked hard and well on it. 

"I love to sew," she told me. "As far 
as that goes, I love doing almost any- 
thing around a house — even cleaning. 
I simply can't stand not having things 
nice — No darling!" she interrupted 
herself, leaning forward in her chair. 
Margie, slipping away from my side, 
had picked up a little china ornament 
from the coffee table. "Put it down, 
dear." 





Margie had picked up a little 
china ornament. "Put it down, 
dear," Bernice said, smiling. 




She was smiling, but Margie looked 
scared, and I reached out and took the 
piece of bric-a-brac from her. And 
then I forgot the incident. Mrs. Ed- 
wards' concern for her belongings was 
entirely natural, but I have thought 
since — oh, how very often! — that if 
only I'd been more observant, more 
sensitive to the undercurrents of char- 
acter, I would have known better than 
to let Margie go every day to the 
Edwards'. 

For that was what happened. It was 
Blaine's suggestion — as so many kind 
and helpful things originated with him 
— but as far as I knew it came from 
Bernice, too. At the end of the week, 
when we had progressed to first names 
in our friendship, I still hadn't found 
anyone who could look out for Margie 
while I was at work, and I was on the 
point of advertising for a woman to 
come in, which I couldn't have afforded. 
That's why it was such a relief when 
Blaine dropped in one evening with 
his offer. 

"It'll be nice for Bernice, too, re- 
member," he parried my gratitude. 
"Margie will be company for her. She 
gets lonesome, there all day while I'm 
at the office." 

Yes, I could understand that. Bernice 
seemed to have no particular women 
friends in the neighborhood. I sup- 
posed she was one of those women who 
don't take much interest in the or- 
dinary activities of suburban social life. 
She'd hinted, the preceding Sunday, 
that she found the few women she 
knew on our block either stupid or 
dull. . . . 

BLAINE leaned down, the better to 
talk to Margie. "How about it?" 
he asked her. "Would you like to visit 
Aunt Bernice every day?" 

"Can I take Shirley with me?" 
Margie asked, not suspiciously, but in 
a reasonable spirit of wanting to get 
everything down in black and white 
before committing herself. Shirley 
Temple was her doll, alternately loved 
passionately and completely forgotten. 
"And is she really my aunt?" 

"No, not really," Blaine said, "but 
she'd like to have you call her that. 
And of course you must bring Shirley." 

". . . All right," Margie agreed — and 
then, catching my eye, "Thank you." 

We were still laughing when the 
telephone rang, and I suppose the 
remnant of laughter was in my voice 
when I answered. There was a barely 
perceptible pause before a woman's 
voice which I recognized at once said, 
"Mrs. Manning? Is my husband there?" 

Strange that she should be so formal, 
I thought — we'd been calling each other 
Bernice and Mary, quite naturally, only 
a day or so before. Well, I wouldn't 
notice it. "Oh, hello!" I cried. "Yes, 
he's here, being a Good Samaritan 
about Margie. It's wonderful of you to 
take her, Bernice, really. But are you 
sure she won't be too much trouble?" 

She laughed at that. "I won't let her 
be!" she promised. "Can I speak to 
Blaine, please?" 

"Of course." I handed him the tele- 
phone, and listened to his end of the 
conversation. (Continued on page 62) ^ 



iust wait until I tasted it, next July! 
^taTthe mention of food-rernmded 
me "Oh-I didn't pay you for the 

have been— unpleasant, if he d tnougm 
itTece'ary to'be fUant and say that 
such a small sum didn't matter, borne 
men would. 



H 



JE took off his hat to say &»**£• 
and I really saw his face for the 
first tie It w'as thin, like his body. 
It was the face of a mature man-he 
must be about thirty, I guessed— but it 
was boyish, too. His eyes were a very 
clear gray, with thick, dark lashes, and 
looking into them I had the mipression 
that he loved laughter and gayety, but 
hadn't had a great deal of either. 

"Look," he said suddenly. "One nice 
thine about not having any gasoline to 
go riding is that we have a chance to 
meet our neighbors. Why don't you 
and the little girl come over Sunday 
afternoon, about four? We'll have a 
bite to eat, and you and Bernice can 
get acquainted." 

"I'd like that very much,' I said, ana 
meant it. , 

"Good. We'll expect you. 
I went on then, warmed by his part- 
ing smile, and at the same time feeling 
once more the loneliness I knew so 
well. Oh, Ned, Ned, I cried soundlessly. 
I still miss you, darling. Days like this, 
with spring whispering in the air- 
times like this, when I see men coming 
home to their wives— I miss you most 
of all. It doesn't seem to matter, so 
much, that our marriage was never 
what it should have been— we were 
both too headstrong, too bent on hav- 
ing our own ways. But we were learn- 
ing. If we'd had more time, we could 
have built a life together . . . maybe. 
Maybe. 

I ran up the front steps of my own 
little house. It was smaller than Mr. 
' Edwards', and not nearly so well cared- 
for, and the rent was higher than it 
should have been, but I considered 
myself lucky to have found a place at 
all. Of course, if I'd been alone, I could 
have lived in a single room in town, 
but with Margie I really needed a 
place in the suburbs. Ned and I had 
always said we wouldn't let a child of 
ours grow up in the city. . . . 

In the hallway I caught sight of my- 
self in the diamond-shaped mirror of 
the old-fashioned hatrack — and for a 
second I looked at the reflection as dis- 
passionately as I would have inspected 
a stranger. You're twenty-eight, Mary 
Manning, I thought, and darned if you 
don't look it, and more. Fine, soft yel- 
low hair can be lovely when you take 
care of it, but not when it's just combed 
out any old way. All right, so you can't 
afford beauty parlors— you could find 

From a radio drama entitled, "The 
Little Things," by Edward Jurist, 
heard Wednesday on Manhattan at 
Midnight, at 8:30 P.M., on The Blue 
3g Network, sponsored by Energine. 



X„d you always did look ^^ ^ 
without lipstick . • • 
Edwards took prtjM* ^ heard the ice- 
"Margie!" I called, an gne came 

box door slam in *•»*£„,# into my 
running, and aunched Jher rf & 

arms as if she d^f,^! "-accusingly- 

"Mummy, youre late. coQk 

"I was iust deciding U Ujv make a 

and mashed potatoes. •••_, her 

.. Ma M y r^Te«er g MVou go ahead 

he'd called Margie Well hew Z rf 
Funny he d.dn t ^hav sW cn^ be _ 
^se^r^w^have known, and 



reported on their presence, if he had. 

On Sunday afternoon at four o'clock 
I'd washed and brushed my hair until 
it positively shimmered, and I'd rfc 
membered the lipstick. I'd warned 
Margie to be on her best behavior, and 
I'd dressed her and myself in crisp 
cotton dresses which felt wonderfully 
fresh and light in these first warm days 
of spring. The minute we entered the 
Edwards' house I was glad I'd taken 
the trouble to see that both Margie and 
I looked our best, because the at- 
mosphere of Mrs. Edwards' home—not 
once did I think of it as his home— said 
plainly it was used to nothing but the 
best. 

■The living room was like something 
cut out of a magazine, printed in full 
colors. The hardwood floors gleamed 
around slippery oases of throw-rugs, 



the slip covers had just that second 
come from the iron, the snowy-white 
organdie curtains were looped back to 
frame the windows in precise sym- 
metry, and if there was a speck of dust 
anywhere I was sure it would have 
taken a detective to find it. 

Mrs. Edwards herself was a little 
dark-haired woman, with eyes to 
match, and delicate, finely-cut features. 
She was pretty, and she certainly was 
hospitable to me, a comparative 
stranger. On a table in front of the 
window she'd laid out a buffet supper 
of delicious food — beans baked to a 
molasses brown, ham in shaving-thin 
slices, a salad bowl of lettuce, tomatoes, 
asparagus and watercress, tea and little 
cakes. All of it tasted as good as it 
looked. 

While we ate, I told her how lovely 



m^ sm^T" Was ' and whe » *e 
wT \ *P deprecatory sound her 
husband said proudly: 

an7ti^ and Ber u ice made «« curtains 

drt: "s? vere herseu ". « • — her 

"It's a beautiful dress," I said-and 
it was; if it was also a little too frilly 
to be quite right for her edged good 
looks, that didn't alter the fact that 
shed worked hard and well on it 

"I love to sew," she told me. "As far 
as that goes, I love doing almost any- 
thing around a house— even cleaning 
I simply can't stand not having things 
nice— No darling!" she interrupted 
herself, leaning forward in her chair. 
Margie, slipping away from my side, 
had picked up a little china ornament 
from the coffee table. "Put it down 
dear." 




She was smiling, but Margie looked 
scared, and I reached out and took the 
piece of bric-a-brac from her. And 
then I forgot the incident Mrs. Ed- 
wards' concern for her belongings was 
entirely natural, but I have thought 
since— oh, how very often!— that -if 
only I'd been more observant, more 
sensitive to the undercurrents of char- 
acter, I would have known better than 
to let Margie go every day to the 
Edwards'. 

For that was what happened. It was 
Blaine's suggestion— as so many kind 
and helpful things originated with him 
—but as far as I knew it came from 
Bernice, too. At the end of the week, 
when we had progressed to first names 
in our friendship, I still hadn't found 
anyone who could look out for Margie 
while I was at work, and I was on the 
point of advertising for a woman to 
come in, which I couldn't have afforded. 
That's why it was such a relief when 
Blaine dropped in one evening with 
his offer. 

"It'll be nice for Bernice, too, re- 
member," he parried my gratitude. 
"Margie will be company for her. She 
gets lonesome, there all day while I'm 
at the office." 

Yes, I could understand that. Bernice 
seemed to have no particular women 
friends in the neighborhood. I sup- 
posed she was one of those women who 
don't take much interest in the or- 
dinary activities of suburban social life. 
She'd hinted, the preceding Sunday, 
that she found the few women she 
knew on our block either stupid or 
dull. . . . 

BLAINE leaned down, the better to 
talk to Margie. "How about it?" 
he asked her. "Would you like to visit 
Aunt Bernice every day?" 

"Can I take Shirley with me?" 
Margie asked, not suspiciously, but in 
a reasonable spirit of wanting to get 
everything down in black and white 
before committing herself. Shirley 
Temple was her doll, alternately loved 
passionately and completely forgotten. 
"And is she really my aunt?" 

"No, not really," Blaine said, "but 

she'd like to have you call her that. 

And of course you must bring Shirley." 

". . . All right," Margie agreed — and 

then, catching my eye, "Thank you." 

We were still laughing when the 
telephone rang, and I suppose the 
remnant of laughter was in my voice 
when I answered. There was a barely 
perceptible pause before a woman's 
voice which I recognized at once said, 
"Mrs. Manning? Is my husband there?" 
Strange that she should be so formal, 
I thought — we'd been calling each other 
Bernice and Mary, quite naturally, only 
a day or so before. Well, I wouldn't 
notice it. "Oh, hello!" I cried. "Yes, 
he's here, being a Good Samaritan 
about Margie. It's wonderful of you to 
take her, Bernice, really. But are you 
sure she won't be too much trouble?" 
She laughed at that. "I won't let her 
be!" she promised. "Can I speak to 
Blaine, please?" 

"Of course." I handed him the tele- 
phone, and listened to his end of the 
conversation. (Continued on page 62) 37 



THAT WE MAY SERVE 



38 



1 HEARD a story the other day that 
I just can't get out of my mind. It 
happened to a friend named Ruth 
Smith. Ruth's a lovely young woman 
who lives over in Metropole with her 
husband and young boy. . . . 

One Friday morning not long ago 
Ruth went marketing early. Her 
brother, John, and his wife, Helen, 
were coming for Sunday dinner and 
she wanted to be sure to get the 
choicest meat and fruit and vegetables. 
She was anxious to have a specially 
fine dinner for John and Helen. She 
felt they deserved it. You see, they 
have two sons in the Pacific — which 
means a lonely home and troubled 
minds. Besides, they work long and 
hard for Victory right here. John's in 
a defense plant. Helen, in addition to 
taking care of John and their little 
home, supervises a community nursery 
school where they look after the small 
children of mothers who have war jobs. 
A short time back — like everybody 
else — Ruth didn't think twice about 
having a roast beef for Sunday dinner. 
These days she counts it a treat. She 
hoped, walking to the store that Friday 
morning, that luck would be with her 
and she'd be able to get the cut' she 
wanted. Ever since her brother John 
has been knee-high roast beef has been 
his favorite food. She planned to have 
asparagus, too, and potatoes cooked 
with the meat. A mixed green salad. 
Apple pie for dessert. All week she 
had saved points. 

The week before, so she told me, her 
butcher shop had opened under new 
management. Her old proprietor had 
sold out when his son had gone into 
service. Well, when it came her turn 
to be served she asked the new man if 
he had a nice roast of beef. He smiled 
and offered her the first three ribs. 
"That's just fine!" she said, and she 
fairly beamed. She could picture her 
brother John's grin when that roast 
came on the table, all brown and crisp 
on the outside, rare inside. 

When the ribs went on the scale the 
price seemed high. However, it wasn't 
a time when Ruth was counting the 
cost. Not until a few hours later, in 
fact, as she was putting her order away 
and spiking her sales slips did she 
really compute what that roast had 



A challenge to all women of 
America — the longer it takes 
you to do your all-out share, 
the longer this war will last! 



cost, pound for pound. She realized 
then, instantly, that the price she had 
paid far exceeded the fixed ceiling 
price. That meant, undoubtedly, that 
she had bought Black Market meat! 
She stood at her kitchen table faint and 
sick all over. If only, she thought, I 
had reckoned the cost while I was in 
the store! Then I could have done 
something about it, questioned the 
butcher, refused to take the roast. But 
it was too late! She wondered, too, if 
there was any way she could detect 
Black Market meat, beyond any doubt. 
And she decided to ask John about it. 

At dinner that Sunday, when Ruth 
told John and Helen what had hap- 
pened, Helen tried to console her. 
"After all," Helen said, "you didn't set 
out to buy Black Market meat, Ruth! 
If the roast is Black Market you bought 
it innocently enough. . . ." 

But Ruth knew, by the set expression 
of her brother's mouth, that he felt 
otherwise. "No use fooling ourselves 
about that roast," he said, seriously. 
"It's Black Market meat! Its cost 
wouldn't have exceeded the fixed ceil- 
ing price if it was legal meat. You've 
got to wake up, you women! Black 
Markets are counting upon your indif- 
ference and your ignorance of the way 
they operate to survive. There aren't 
Black Markets just in meat either, you 
know. There are Black Markets to 
spring up in anything else which our 
government rations or places a fixed 
ceiling price upon. . . ." 

Then John went on to' explain to 
Ruth and Helen that the more often a 
tradesman had to answer questions — 
questions which his customers asked to 
guard against buying Black Market 
products, you know — the more con- 
vinced he would be that it would be 
stupid for him to deal in illegal goods. 



And the more mindful of Black 
Markets he would be, too . . . and the 
less likely to be taken in by them. 

John said: "You women must even 
give up the men you've traded with for 
years if necessary. I know the difficulty 
of marketing in these days," he went 
on, "when you have no car and there 
are points and costs to consider, and 
when you're busy with all the extra 
war work you're tackling. But you've 
got to do your part in stamping out the 
Black Market. Even though you end 
up walking several blocks further to 
do your shopping, you must not patron- 
ize any tradesman who doesn't respect 
you for making sure you aren't buying 
so much as a nickel's worth of Black 
Market's products. 

"Don't forget either," John went on, 
frankly, "that you jeopardize your 
family's health every time you bring 
Black Market meat or Black Market 
anything else into the kitchen. No gov- 
ernment inspectors pass upon Black 
Market meat, remember. And the 
thieves who sell it don't care what 
happens to you once they have your 
money. . . . You bought Black Market 
meat, Ruth," he insisted, "else, as I said 
before, you wouldn't have paid more 
than the fixed ceiling price for it! But, 
so you won't buy it again — let me tell 
you and Helen here about the Govern- 
ment stamps. ..." 

Well, he went on to say that every 
legal piece of meat that enters a re- 
tailer's store bears both a slaughter 
permit number and a grade stamp. 
"You won't (Continued on page 85) 



In the kitchen of her home in 
Littleton, Aunt Jenny lets Dan 
Seymour, her popular announcer 
taste her meatless walnut patt'"^ 
before she goes on the air to 
one of those Real Life Stori 
hear Mondays . through Frid . 
11:45 A.M., EWT, over the < 
Network, and sponsored by Spn , 



J 






^f 4 



i 






I 

I 





an 




/K 



i 




It was her wedding dress — her 



J 









A MAN'S nature is a treacherous 
thing. I had always known, I 
suppose, that love can turn to 
hate, that the closest friendship can 
become the bitterest enmity, that ten- 
derness can change into a savage desire 
to be cruel, to return hurt for hurt, but 
I had never actually realized that I was 
capable of such complete corrosion 
within myself until that June morning 
I walked into Sally Lou Shand's hotel 
room. 

It should have been Carolyn's room. 
I had expected it to be Carolyn's; it 
was Carolyn, with her wide green eyes 
and her hair like sunlight, and her 
lovely lightness of voice and her lovely 
lightness of person, Carolyn, the girl I 
was engaged to marry, whom I had left 
the Post to meet that morning. Instead 
I found Sally Lou, Carolyn's sister. 

She was eighteen, three years 
younger than Carolyn and four years 
younger than I, but to me — she was 
just a youngster. I remembered her 
as the youngster who'd run her legs 
off to keep up with us at Cops and 
Robbers when we were all children, 
who later on hung around the field 
when I went out for spring football 
practice in high school, who still later 
obligingly lured Petey and Bub, the 
youngest Shanes, out of the living room 
when I went to call on Carolyn. 

And it was Sally Lou who had 
traveled from our home town near 
Richmond, Virginia, to that Manhattan 
hotel to speak the words which turned 
all of my hopes into hopelessness, 
which made dust of my every dream. 

"Carolyn can't marry you, Jim," she 
said. "Not tomorrow, and not ever. She 
eloped three days ago with Captain 
Emory Lee." 

That was all, and that was every- 
thing. 

I hadn't known that I could be hurt 
so much. I hadn't known how bitter 
hurt could be, nor that the poison of 
bitterness must gain release, no matter 
who else suffered. The truth was that 
I had been ill-prepared for that day. 
Until then life had been too kind; until 
then all of the important things had 
been pretty much as I wanted them 
to be. 

I was the only son of indulgent 
parents. I had the Shanes next door 



\ 




■^y!. ' £ 



r 



rv 



V* 




. fa*-*;* 



by right of all those years of devotion. But Jim, in his anger, was robbing her of it 



as confidants and company. I was a 
good athlete and a good student, and 
won my share of such honors as our 
town offered its young people. When 
I was graduated from high school I 
walked straight into a good job with 
Southern Textiles, a job with a future, 
and when I joined the Army it was 
with the assurance that my job would 
be waiting for me when I came back. 
And I joined the Army with the as- 
surance, too, that Carolyn would be 
waiting for me when I came back. 

That was the best part of my living, 
and had been ever since high school — 
Carolyn, grown-up all of a sudden, it 
seemed, from the long-legged, laughing 
playmate of my childhood into a lovely 
young woman — and she was mine. Or 
at least, from the first she gave me 
preference- above her other beaux — and 
there were many of them. It was my 
Scholastic Society pin she wore; it was 
I who had the first and the last dance 
and most of the dances in between with 
her. At first she would give me no 
promises. She moved always a little 
ahead of me, laughing at my attempts 
to be serious, unattainable, yet just 
barely beyond my reach. 

Then, the night before I left home, 
she did pledge herself to me. She ac- 
cepted the ring I had bought for her 
in a surge of self-confidence, and the 
kiss she gave me was a woman's kiss, 
deep and sweet and as full of promise 
as the words she whispered. 

Yes, life had been too good. Even 
being away from Carolyn for a year, 
moving from camp to camp, and finally 
being stationed near New York, hun- 
dreds of miles away from her — even 
then I could be happy, knowing that I 
had her to return to. Ironically, it was 
the final touch of good fortune, the 
circumstance which made suddenly 
possible the realization of my most 
cherished dream. 

On the same day I got my orders to 
the effect that after a ten-day furlough, 
I musj hold myself in readiness to de- 
part for a port of embarkation, I 
received also a letter from the agency 
representing a, tobacco company which 
sold a well-known brand of cigarettes 
and sponsored, in the name of the 
cigarette, a well-known orchestra's 
radio program. The letter said that an 



invitation had been extended to Caro- 
lyn, as the financee of a serviceman, to 
come to New York to be married dur- 
ing the orchestra's broadcast. Carolyn 
would be presented with a trousseau 
and a wedding gown, and we would be 
given a week's honeymoon in the bridal 
suite of one of the largest and most 
expensive hotels. . . . 

It seemed too good to be true. I had 
been expecting to be sent overseas, but 
I had never expected to be given a 
chance to marry my girl on my last 
furlough. The fellows at camp mar- 
veled. "The original Whitlock luck," 
they said. "Lucky Jim does it again!" 

I was excited. I wrote to Carolyn, 
explaining that it would be my last 
furlough in this country, urging her to 
accept the agency's invitation — never 
dreaming, of course, that she wouldn't 
— and spent the happiest hours of my 
life looking forward to her arrival. 
Ten days to be with Carolyn. Ten days 
to be with my bride — my wife. 

¥ PLANNED little, inconsequential 
things — we would have breakfast in 
bed on gray or rainy days, with 
Carolyn, blonde and languorous and 
beautiful, propped up against the pil- 
lows beside me. On sunny days we 
would breakfast at a little table drawn 
up before the windows in the living 
room of the suite. We would look out 
over the city together, and Carolyn's 
slim white hands would pour the coffee 
and uncover the dishes full of steam- 
ing, fragrant things. . . . On one or two 
evenings we wouldn't use the theater 
tickets and the supper club cards which 
the agency was to send us. Carolyn 
liked to go out, but I knew that she 
wouldn't mind, since I would be leav- 
ing so soon — on one or two nights we 
would just stay at home together, and 
we'd read the papers and listen to the 
radio with Carolyn curled contentedly 
as a kitten in my lap. . . . Ten nights 
to sleep with my wife beside me, feel- 
ing her soft and close against me in the 
dark, listening to her breathing, realiz- 
ing, the miracle that she was mine, that 
all of the sweetness and the dearness 
of her was mine to hold and to 
cherish. . . . 

I took the Long Island train into the 
city with my mind so full of the next 



ten days that I didn't know where to 
begin to tell Carolyn — 

Instead, there was no Carolyn; there 
was Sally Lou. Instead of Carolyn's 
big white leather trunk there was Sally 
Lou's small suitcase, half-unpacked. 
There was the small, but perfect dia- 
mond ring I had given Carolyn lying 
on the floor where it had fallen when 
Sally Lou had tried to give it back 
to me. 

I had not been gentle with Sally. I 
had questioned her exhaustively about 
Carolyn and the Captain, as if by 
knowing every little detail the thing 
would become real to me. Reality, 
however miserable, was better than a 
nightmare. There was, after all, very 
little to tell. Carolyn had met the Cap- 
tain a short while ago — three weeks — 
and they had eloped on the very day 
the letter from the agency had arrived 
for Carolyn. 

Sally Lou repeated the story over 
and over again as I questioned her, 
speaking in a small, meek voice, as if 
by talking softly she could minimize 
what her sister had done. But there 
was still the secretive, stubborn look 
on her face, as if she were still holding 
something back, and I prodded her 
relentlessly. 

"My letter arrived night before last. 
And you took the morning train to 
New York — for what?" 

Sally's head snapped back, and her 
dark eyes flashed with anger. Sally 
had always been the most peppery of 
the Shanes. 

"Stop it!" she cried. "Stop badgering 
me, Jim! There's nothing more to tell. 
I didn't want to come here in the first 
place. I knew you wouldn't want to 
see me, knew you'd hate everything 
connected with Carolyn. It was her 
idea—" 

"Carolyn's!" 

"Yes — Carolyn's. She thought — well, 
she thought that it might be easier 
for you if one of us told you. After 
all, you've been so — so close to our 
family—" 

"I appreciate her thoughtfulness." 
My voice was ugly. 

Sally Lou rose from her chair and 
came to stand before me, her short 
dark curls trembling, her small fists 
clenched. "I didn't want any part of it. 



41 







I 









It was her wedding dress — hei 



A MAN'S nature is a treacherous 
thing. I had always known, I 
suppose, that love can turn to 
hate that the closest friendship can 
become the bitterest enmity, that ten- 
derness can change into a savage desire 
to be cruel, to return hurt for hurt, but 
I had never actually realized that I was 
capable of such complete corrosion 
within myself until that June morning 
I walked into Sally Lou Shand's hotel 
room. 

It should have been Carolyn's room. 
I had expected it to be Carolyn's; it 
was Carolyn, with her wide green eyes 
and her hair like sunlight, and her 
lovely lightness of voice and her lovely 
lightness of person, Carolyn, the girl I 
was engaged to marry, whom I had left 
the Post to meet that morning. Instead 
I found Sally Lou, Carolyn's sister. 

She was eighteen, three years 
younger than Carolyn and four years 
younger than I, but to me — she was 
just a youngster. I remembered her 
as the youngster who'd run her legs 
off to keep up with us at Cops and 
Robbers when we were all children, 
who later on hung around the field 
when I went out for spring football 
practice in high school, who still later 
obligingly lured Petey and Bub, the 
youngest Shanes, out of the living room 
when I went to call on Carolyn. 

And it was Sally Lou who had 
traveled from our home town near 
Richmond, Virginia, to that Manhattan 
hotel to speak the words which turned 
all of my hopes into hopelessness, 
which made dust of my every dream. 
"Carolyn can't marry you, Jim," she 
said. "Not tomorrow, and not ever. She 
eloped three days ago with Captain 
Emory Lee." 

That was all, and that was every- 
thing. 

I hadnt known that I could be hurt 
so much. I hadn't known how bitter 
hurt could be, nor that the poison ot 
bitterness must gain release, no matter 
who else suffered. The truth was that 
I had been ill-prepared for that day^ 
Until then life had been too kind; until 
then all of the important things had 
been pretty much as I wanted them 
to be. 

I was the only son of indulgent 
parents. I had the Shanes next door 



by right of all those years of devotion. But Jim, in his anger, was robbing her of it 



I 



list ^ >=> )^ ^ 

* J2M. i *v M 
« t 



as confidants and company. I was a 
good athlete and a good student, and 
won my share of such honors as our 
town offered its young people. When 
I was graduated from high school I 
walked straight into a good job with 
Southern Textiles, a job with a future, 
and when I joined the Army it was 
with the assurance that my job would 
be waiting for me when I came back. 
And I joined the Army with the as- 
surance, too, that Carolyn would be 
waiting for me when I came back. 

That was the best part of my living, 
and had been ever since high school — 
Carolyn, grown-up all of a sudden, it 
seemed, from the long-legged, laughing 
playmate of my childhood into a lovely 
young woman— and she was mine. Or 
at least, from the first she gave me 
.preference^'above her other beaux — and 
there were many of them. It was my 
Scholastic 'Society pin she wore; it was 
I who had the first and the last dance 
and most of the dances in between with 
her. At first she would give me no 
promises. She moved always a little 
ahead of me, laughing at my attempts 
to be serious, unattainable, yet just 
barely beyond my reach. 

Then, the .night before I left home, 
she did pledge herself to me. She ac- 
cepted the ring I had bought for her 
in a surge of self-confidence, and the 
kiss she gave me was a woman's kiss, 
deep and sweet and as full of promise 
■as the words she whispered. 

Yes, life had been too good. Even 
being away from Carolyn for a year, 
moving from camp to camp, and finally 
being stationed hear New York, hun- 
dreds of miles away from her — even 
then I could be happy, knowing that I 
had her to return -to. Ironically, it was 
the final touch of good fortune, the 
circumstance which made suddenly 
possible the realization of my most 
cherished dream. 

On the same day I got my orders to 
the effect that after a ten-day furlough, 
I must hold myself in readiness to de- 
part for a port of embarkation, I 
received also a letter from the agency 
representing a, tobacco company which 
sold a well-known brand of cigarettes 
and sponsored, in the name of the 
cigarette, a well-known orchestra's 
radio program. The letter said that an 



invitation had been extended to Caro- 
lyn, as the financee of a serviceman, to 
come to New York to be married dur- 
ing the orchestra's broadcast. Carolyn 
would be presented with a trousseau 
and a wedding gown, and we would be 
given a week's honeymoon in the bridal 
suite of one of the largest and most 
expensive hotels. . . . 

It seemed too good to be true. I had 
been expecting to be sent overseas, but 
I had never expected to be given a 
chance to marry my girl on my last 
furlough. The fellows at camp mar- 
veled. "The original Whitlock luck," 
they said. "Lucky Jim does it again!" 

I was excited. I wrote to Carolyn, 
explaining that it would be my last 
furlough in this country, urging her to 
accept the agency's invitation — never 
dreaming, of course, that she wouldn't 
: — and spent the happiest hours of my 
life looking forward to her arrival. 
Ten days to be with Carolyn. Ten days 
to be with my bride— my wife. 

1 PLANNED little, inconsequential 
things — we would have breakfast in 
bed on gray or rainy days, with 
Carolyn, blonde and languorous and 
beautiful, propped up against the pil- 
lows beside me. On sunny days we 
would breakfast at a little table drawn 
up before the windows in the living 
room of the suite. We would look out 
over the city together, and Carolyn's 
slim white hands would pour the coffee 
and uncover the dishes full of steam- 
ing, fragrant things On one or two 

evenings we wouldn't use the theater 
tickets and the supper club cards which 
the agency was to send us. Carolyn 
liked to go out, but I knew that she 
wouldn't mind, since I would be leav- 
ing so soon— on one or two nights we 
would just stay at home together, and 
we'd read the papers and listen to the 
radio with Carolyn curled contentedly 

as a kitten in my lap Ten nights 

to sleep with my wife beside me, feel- 
ing her soft and close against me in the 
dark, listening to her breathing, realiz- 
ing the miracle that she was mine, that 
all of the sweetness and the dearness 
of her was mine to hold and to 

^fmok'the Long Island train into ithe 
city with my mind so full of the next 



ten days that I didn't know where to 
begin to tell Carolyn — 

Instead, there was no Carolyn; there 
was Sally Lou. Instead of Carolyn's 
big white leather trunk there was Sally 
Lou's small suitcase, half-unpacked. 
There was the small, but perfect dia- 
mond ring I had given Carolyn lying 
on the floor where it had fallen when 
Sally Lou had tried to give it back 
to me. 

I had not been gentle with Sally. I 
had questioned her exhaustively about 
Carolyn and the Captain, as if by 
knowing every little detail the thing 
would become real to me. Reality, 
however miserable, was better than a 
nightmare. There was, after all, very 
little to tell. Carolyn had met the Cap- 
tain a short while ago — three weeks — 
and they had eloped on the very day 
the letter from the agency had arrived 
for Carolyn. 

Sally Lou repeated the story over 
and over again as I questioned her, 
speaking in a small, meek voice, as if 
by talking softly she could minimize 
what her sister had done. But there 
was still the secretive, stubborn look 
on her face, as if she were still holding 
something back, and I prodded her 
relentlessly. 

"My letter arrived night before last. 
And you took the morning train to 
New York — for what?" 

Sally's head snapped back, and her 
dark eyes flashed with anger. Sally 
had always been the most peppery of 
the Shanes. 

"Stop it!" she cried. "Stop badgering 
me, Jim! There's nothing more to tell. 
I didn't want to come here in the first 
place. I knew you wouldn't want to 
see me, knew you'd hate everything 
connected with Carolyn. It was her 
idea — " 

"Carolyn's I" 

"Yes— Carolyn's. She thought— well, 
she thought that it might be easier 
for you if one of us told you. After 
all, you've been so — so close to our 
family — " 

"I appreciate her thoughtfulness. 
My voice was ugly. 

Sally Lou rose from her chair and 
came to stand before me, her short 
dark curls trembling, her small fists 
clenched. "I didn't want any part of it. 



Maybe Carolyn couldn't help falling in 
love with the Captain, but at least she 
could have told you about it when she 
knew it was happening. And then your 
special delivery came. No one was at 
home — they'd all gone with Carolyn to 
drive the Captain back to his Post. I 
opened it, and — and I just couldn't 
stand it. You — you sounded so happy — " 
Her voice broke, but in a moment she 
recovered herself. "That's what made 
me decide to come. I tried to telephone 
you first, and the Post wouldn't let the 
call through. I didn't want to come 
here, but at least it seemed better than 
telling you in a letter. There was so 
much to explain, and all of these plans 
to be called off — " 

"ITER dark eyes glowed, and her 
■*-*• mouth trembled, a soft and vivid 
scarlet. In her anger she was no longer 
a pert youngster, Carolyn's kid sister, 
but a woman defending her own con- 
victions. Angry, Sally Lou was a 
woman, .a beautiful woman. I realized 
it suddenly, a new and interesting 
phenomenon in the wreckage of my 
plans. 

I took a step toward her. She did 
not retreat, but stood looking at me 
steadily, her eyes very wide, very dark, 
still harboring their secret. "Why 
should they be called off, Sally? After 
all, you're here." 

She knew instantly what I meant, 
and for a moment it was as if her whole 
being were lighted by a transfiguring 
flame — a flame that went quickly out, 
leaving her eyes dead and her mouth 
twisted like a bit of burnt paper. 

"Why should they be changed?" I 
insisted. "You came here as Carolyn 
Shane, didn't you? You didn't tell any- 
one — you didn't tell the people from 
the agency who met you — that you 
weren't my fiancee?" 

"Only because it was simpler," she 
said colorlessly. "I wanted to get to 
you quickly, and I didn't want to be 
stopped. I knew you could explain 
to them — " 

I shook my head, beginning to smile 
a little, and it was a strange sensation, 
as though a robot smiled. "Oh, no, I 
don't want to make any explanations. 
This is my last furlough — do you hear 
that, Sally? — my last ten days in my 
own country, for who knows how long. 
I don't want it cluttered up with an- 
swering a lot of whys and wherefores, 
and facing a lot of strangers who are 
sorry for me. I'd much rather explain 



This story was suggested by 
the Sammy Kaye show on 
which each week a service- 
man and his sweetheart, 
wife or mother, are brought 
together by the sponsors, 
Old Gold Cigarettes. The 
program is heard on 
Wednesday nights over CBS 
at 8:00 P.M., EvVT. 




42 



just one thing — that there's been a 
mistake about the name — that my 
fiancee is Sally Lou, and not Carolyn 
Shane. Do you think you could help 
me with that, Sally? You'll buy your 
trousseau today as these people had 
planned, and tomorrow night we'll be 
married while the orchestra broad- 
casts, and then we'll come back to the 
bridal suite for our honeymoon — " 

She flinched as though I had struck 
her, and her face was drawn and paper- 
white. Yet I knew she would do as I 
wanted. Sally had always done what 
I wanted, ever since we were children. 
There are compensations — when a 
man's heart leaves him, his mind be- 
comes clearer and sharper as an eye is 
strengthened when the sight of the 
other eye is impaired. I saw the flicker 
of expression which crept into Sally's 
dead black eyes, and I knew it for what 
it was — a bit of feminine reasoning, 
handed down by generations of women 
who had set their heart upon a man. 
She would marry me not so much to 
please me as for the hope of winning 
me later. She would make me love 
her. . . . 

I knew then that I w,ould never again 
love anyone. 

The telephone rang. Sally did not 



move, and after a moment I picked it 
up. A brisk feminine voice announced 
its owner as Miss Towne, from the ad- 
vertising agency. She was waiting in 
the lobby to take my fiancee shopping. 
I placed the mouthpiece against my 
chest. "Miss Towne is waiting to take 
you shopping," I said. "Will you go?" 

For a long moment she looked at me 
without speaking, and then she picked 
up her hat and went to the mirror to 
put it on. 

"Miss Shane will be right down." I 
hung up the phone. Sally was already 
half way out the door. "Haven't you 
forgotten something?" I called after 
her. 

She hesitated, and then as I went 
over to her, she raised her lips — cool 
child's lips — to mine. She was quiet in 
my embrace, and very still, and then 
I felt her mouth crumple under my 
kiss; I caught a flash of tears in her 
backward glance as she broke away 
from me and hurried down the hall. 

I walked around the room after Sally 
had gone, trying to think what I was 
to do next. Whatever plans I had 
originally made for the day were gone 
as completely as if they hadn't been 
made at all. I stared out the window 
for a time at the unfamiliar expanse of 






roofs, and then beyond them to the 
trees of Central Park. 

The trees at least marked a place I 
knew. I had visited the Park often; 
earlier in the spring I had gone there 
frequently on my free Sundays, paus- 
ing most often where family groups 
congregated — at the lake and at the 
merry-go-round. Hearing the chil- 
dren's voices, watching them play, had 
been a little like being back home and 
living next door to the Shanes. 

But the Jim Whitlock who had sat 
by the merry-go-round on sunny Sun- 



day afternoons, buying rides occasion- 
ally for the children who had no 
grown-ups of their own to buy them 
rides, seemed to have no connection 
with the Jim Whitlock who stood in a 
hotel room awaiting Sally Lou Shane's 
return. I went to the bureau and leaned 
over it to look in the mirror, trying to 
identify myself, to grasp my new posi- 
tion and my circumstances, to find a 
starting-point for action. My eyes 
looked back at me with the eyes of a 
stranger. 

I remembered Sally's unwilling 



description of the Captain, Captain 
Emory Lee. Dark, she'd said, and whip- 
slender, with a small moustache. He 
sounded dashing. Carolyn would like 
that. When we'd first started to go out 
together, when I was still no more to 
her than the boy next door, she had 
made no secret of the fact that she 
liked to be with me partly because we 
looked well together — both of us blond, 
Carolyn very fragile -looking in con- 
trast to my almost too-rugged build. 

I backed away from the mirror, and 
my heel struck something — Sally's 
suitcase, half unpacked, with a dark 
woolen skirt lying as Sally had dropped 
it when I'd come into the room. I 
stooped automatically to pick up the 
skirt, and found other things — a blouse, 
a jacket — which should have been 
hung up to prevent wrinkling. Auto- 
matically I took them from the suitcase 
and put them on hangers. 

'"PHE suitcase smelled faintly musty. 

I recognized it as one which had 
stood for years in the Shane attic. I 
emptied it, and put Sally's things away 
carefully in the closet and in bureau 
drawers, with a neatness learned as 
much from Mrs. Shane as from the 
Army. When the bottom part was 
cleared, I untied the string which held 
the envelope-like compartment in the 
lid. As it opened a puff of dust arose, 
and an assortment of objects rolled out 
— a packet of letters, some dried pressed 
flowers, a small gold football — tar- 
nished now — a Freshman Week button 
in our high school colors. I stared at 
the collection — hardly one which Sally 
would have packed for the trip to New 
York — and realized why she had taken 
the suitcase. It was hers. Each of the 
Shane children had had a trunk or an 
old grip in the attic in which to lock 
such papers and mementoes which they 
wished to keep. 

Without thinking, I flipped through 
the letters. The handwriting was fa- 
miliar — mine, as it had been five or six 
years ago, the first summer Sally had 
gone to camp and had begged me to 
write to her every week to keep her 
from being lonesome. Evidently I had 
kept my promise, because every one of 
the letters was from me. The football, 
I recollected slowly, was one Sally had 
worn when she'd been my guest at a 
game on one of those rare occasions 
when Carolyn had had another date. I'd 
bought her the Freshman Week button 
the day she'd entered high school, teas- 
ing her from the heights of my dignity 
as an alumnus. 

The flowers I remembered especially. 
They were the corsage of tiny yellow 
roses I had bought Sally on the one 
night I'd broken a date with Carolyn, 
to take Sally to her class dance. I re- 
membered how pretty she had looked 
that evening, with her face alight with 
happiness, her eyes rapturous. . . . 

I looked briefly at the other objects 
which had fallen from the lid com- 
partment. Every one of them had been 
mine, or had had some connection with 
me. There was even a discarded 
necktie, one I had left at the Shane 
house. . . . 

"Oh, God," I (Continued on page 58) 43 



Maybe Carolyn couldn't help falling m 
™ve with the Captain, but at least she 
could have told you about it when she 
knew it was happen.ng. And then your 
special delivery came. No one was at 
home-the/d all gone with Carolyn to 
drive the Captain back to his Post I 
opened it, and-and I just couldn t 
stand it. You— you sounded so happy— 
Her voice broke, but in a moment she 
recovered herself. "That^ what made 
me decide to come. I tried to telephone 
you first, and the Post wouldn t let the 
call through. I didn't want to come 
here but at least it seemed better than 
telling you in a letter. There was so 
much to explain, and all of these plans 
to be called off—" 



H 



ER dark eyes glowed, and her 
mouth trembled, a soft and vivid 
scarlet. In her anger she was no longer 
a pert youngster, Carolyn's kid sister, 
but a woman defending her own con- 
victions. Angry, Sally Lou was a 
woman, a beautiful woman. I realized 
it suddenly, a new and interesting 
phenomenon in the wreckage of my 
plans. 

I took a step toward her. She did 
not retreat, but stood looking at me 
steadily, her eyes very wide, very dark, 
still harboring their secret. "Why 
should they be called off, Sally? After 
all, you're here." 

She knew instantly what I meant, 
and for a moment it was as if her whole 
being were lighted by a transfiguring 
flame — a flame that went quickly out, 
leaving her eyes dead and her mouth 
twisted like a bit of burnt paper. 

"Why should they be changed?" I 
insisted. "You came here as Carolyn 
Shane, didn't you? You didn't tell any- 
one — you didn't tell the people from 
the agency who met you — that you 
weren't my fiancee?" 

"Only because it was simpler," she 
said colorlessly. "I wanted to get to 
you quickly, and I didn't want to be 
stopped. I knew you could explain 
to them — " 

I shook my head, beginning to smile 
a little, and it was a strange sensation, 
as though a robot smiled. "Oh, no, I 
don't want to make any explanations. 
This is my last furlough — do you hear 
that, Sally? — my last ten days in my 
own country, for who knows how long. 
I don't want it cluttered up with an- 
swering a lot of whys and wherefores, 
and facing a lot of strangers who are 
sorry for me. I'd much rather explain 



This story was suggested by 
Me Sammy Kaye show on 
which each week a service- 
man and his sweetheart, 
wife or mother, are brought 
together by the sponsors, 
Old Gold Cigarettes. The 
program is heard on 
Wednesday nights orer CBS 
at 8:00 P.M., EWT. 




just one thing — that there's been a 
mistake about the name — that my 
fiancee is Sally Lou, and not Carolyn 
Shane. Do you think you could help 
me with that, Sally? You'll buy your 
trousseau today as these people had 
planned, and tomorrow night we'll be 
married while the orchestra broad- 
casts, and then we'll come back to the 
bridal suite for our honeymoon—" 

She flinched as though I had struck 
her, and her face was drawn and paper- 
white. Yet I knew she would do as I 
wanted. Sally had always done what 
I wanted, ever since we were children. 
There are compensations — when a 
man's heart leaves him, his mind be- 
comes clearer and sharper as an eye is 
strengthened when the sight of the 
other eye is impaired. I saw the flicker 
of expression which crept into Sally's 
dead black eyes, and I knew it for what 
it was — a bit of feminine reasoning, 
handed down by generations of women 
who had set their heart upon a man. 
She would marry me not so much to 
please me as for the hope of winning 
me later. She would make me love 
her. , . . 

I knew then that I w,ould never again 
love anyone. 

The telephone rang. Sally did not 



move, and after a moment I picked it 
up. A brisk feminine voice announced 
its owner as Miss Towne, from the ad- 
vertising agency. She was waiting in 
the lobby to take my fiancee shopping. 
I placed the mouthpiece against my 
chest. "Miss Towne is waiting to take 
you shopping," I said. "Will you go?" 

For a long moment she looked at me 
without speaking, and then she picked 
up her hat and went to the mirror to 
put it on. 

"Miss Shane will be right down." I 
hung up the phone. Sally was already 
half way out the door. "Haven't you 
forgotten something?" I called after 
her. 

She hesitated, and then as I went 
over to her, she raised her lips — cool 
child's lips — to mine. She was quiet in 
my embrace, and very still, and then 
I felt her mouth crumple under my 
kiss; I caught a flash of tears in her 
backward glance as she broke away 
from me and hurried down the hall. 

I walked around the room after Sally 
had gone, trying to think what I was 
to do next. Whatever plans I had 
originally made for the day were gone 
as completely as if they hadn't been 
made at all. I stared out the window 
for a time at the unfamiliar expanse of 



"Carolyn can't marry you, Jim." she said. "Not tomorrow 
and not ever." I hadn't known that I could be hurt so much. 



roots, and then beyond them to the 
trees of Central Park. 

The trees at least marked a place I 
™ew. I had visited the Park often; 
earlier in the spring I had gone there 
frequently on my free Sundays, paus- 
»ng most often where family groups 
congregated— at the lake and at the 
merry-go- raun d. Hearing the chil- 
dren's voices, watching them play, had 
D .een a little like being back home and 
Uv 'ng next door to the Shanes. 

But the Jim Whitlock who had sat 



by the 



merry-go-round on sunny Sun- 



day afternoons, buying rides occasion- 
ally for the children who had no 
grown-ups of their own to buy them 
rides, seemed to have no connection 
with the Jim Whitlock who stood in a 
hotel room awaiting Sally Lou Shan. s s 
return. I went to the bureau and leaned 
over it to look in the mirror, trying to 
identify myself, to grasp my new posi- 
tion and my circumstances, to find 
starting-point for action. My eyes 
looked" back at me with the eyes of a 

S T g r e emembered Sally's unwilling 



description of the Captain, Captain 
Emory Lee. Dark, she'd said, and whip- 
slender, with a small moustache. He 
sounded dashing. Carolyn would like 
that. When we'd first started to go out 
together, when I was still no more to 
her than the boy next door, she had 
made no secret of the fact that she 
liked to be with me partly because we 
looked well together — both of us blond, 
Carolyn very fragile-looking in con- 
trast to my almost too-rugged build. 

I backed away from the mirror, and 
my heel struck something — Sally's 
suitcase, half unpacked, with a dark 
woolen skirt lying as Sally had dropped 
it when I'd come into the room. I 
stooped automatically to pick up the 
skirt, and found other things — a blouse, 
a jacket — which should have been 
hung up to prevent wrinkling. Auto- 
matically I took them from the suitcase 
and put them on hangers. 

'T'HE suitcase smelled faintly musty. 
A I recognized it as one which had 
stood for years in the Shane attic. I 
emptied it, and put Sally's things away 
carefully in the closet and in bureau 
drawers, with a neatness learned as 
much from Mrs. Shane as from the 
Army. When the bottom part was 
cleared, I untied the string which held 
the envelope-like compartment in the 
lid. As it opened a puff of dust arose, 
and an assortment of objects rolled out 
— a packet of letters, some dried pressed 
flowers, a small gold football— tar- 
nished now — a Freshman Week button 
in our high school colors. I stared at 
the collection — hardly one which Sally 
would have packed for the trip to New 
York — and realized why she had taken 
the suitcase. It was hers. Each of the 
Shane children had had a trunk or an 
old grip in the attic in which to lock 
such papers and mementoes which they 
wished to keep. 

Without thinking, I flipped through 
the letters. The handwriting was fa- 
miliar — mine, as it had been five or six 
years ago, the first summer Sally had 
gone to camp and had begged me to 
write to her every week to keep her 
from being lonesome. Evidently I had 
kept my promise, because every one of _ 
the letters was from me. The football, 
I recollected slowly, was one Sally had 
worn when she'd been my guest at a 
game on one of those rare occasions 
when Carolyn had had another date. I'd 
bought her the Freshman Week button 
the day she'd entered high school, teas- 
ing her from the heights of my dignity 
as an alumnus. 

The flowers I remembered especially. 
They were the corsage of tiny yellow 
roses I had bought Sally on the one 
night I'd broken a date with Carolyn, 
to take Sally to her class dance. I re- 
membered how pretty she had looked 
that evening, with her face alight with 
happiness, her eyes rapturous. . . . 

I looked briefly at the other objects 
which had fallen from the lid com- 
partment. Every one of them had been 
mine, or had had some connection with 
me. There was even a discarded 
necktie, one I had left at the Shane 
house. ... 

"Oh, God," I (Continued on page 58) 43 




HMr ^^^fl^tai 



SHO' MUFF 

You'll be singing this new tune after you hear your popular 
swing and sway maestro, Sammy Kaye, play it on the Old 
Gold program Wednesday nights at 8:00 EWT, over CBS 



I 



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Voice Moderate- (with a lift) 



Words and Music 
BILLY WILLIAMS 



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did you say you lore me? 



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can your love be true? 



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youll be 'mine and make my dreams come true,_ SHO' NUFF 





Here's your chance to meet -that madcap young fellow, 
Joey, his grand family and his girl friend, Minerva 



*r&?\*b 



While preparing dinner for that 
hungry son of hers, Mrs. Brewster 
worries about his next prank. 
(Played by Connie Crowder) 

Right, as he helps Minerva do 
the supper dishes Joey gives out 
with some information about love. 
(Minerva played by Jane Webb) 



Below, Joey and Nancy get a bit of 
parental advice before going out. 
(Nancy played by Louise Fitch, 
Jim Brewster by Hugh Studebaker) 






THE antics and pranks of 
Joey Brewster are en- 
joyed by his family and 
friends as well as millions 
of radio listeners each Fri- 
day night at 9:30 P.M., 
EWT, on CBS, sponsored by 
Quaker Oats. In Mrs. Brew- 
ster's eyes, Joey can do no 
wrong. As for Dad, who is 
often aggravated to distrac- 
tion, his son is the essence 
of young manhood. Even to 
his sister Nancy, Joey is a 
hero, although, goodness 
knows, he has embarrassed 
her no end of times. And, 
of course, while getting in 
and out of trouble Joey al- 
ways has his girl friend, 
Minerva, to fall back on 
— and does she love it! 
(Joey Brewster played by 
Eddie Firestone, Jr.) 



This last mad act' of Gene's had broken the power he had over 
her. And now Arda was free to find comfort in the arms of 
Tim, who had waited so long, who had loved her so hopelessly 



THE STORY 

\ HAD married Gene, but it was Tim, 
•*■ Gene's brother, who had made our 
marriage possible, giving us financial 
security — indeed, even doing Gene's 
proposing for him. And now, after less 
than a year of marriage to Gene, I 
knew that I didn't love him, could 
never love him again. How could I 
ever again care for the man whose 
thoughtlessness had been the cause of 
my losing my baby? And Gene was 
utterly selfish and ruthless, caring for 
nothing in the world but his own com- 
fort and happiness. Worse still, I knew 
that it was Tim I really loved — big, 
strong, sweet Tim, whom I loved all 
the more because my love for him 
seemed hopeless. 

WHEN Tim came home on leave, 
late in February, I didn't guess 
why. Perhaps it was because my 
brain unconsciously set up its own 
defenses against a truth it did not want 
to know. 

Seeing him again was like being given 
a drink of cool water when you were 
dying of thirst. The days with Gene 
had gone by in a gray mist of monotony. 
Sometimes I had the uncanny feeling 
that I was not married to him at all. 
We inhabited the same house, I wore 
his wedding ring and his name, when 
he desired me I lay passively, in his 
arms, but our marriage simply did not 
exist. It had existed once, but it had 
died. 

Yet I had no strength left to fight 
against this false marriage. I could 
neither bring it back to life nor escape 
from its ghostlike, clammy grasp. 

It made no difference that I knew 
Gene was unhappy, too. I could not 
help him; I'd tried, and failed. He 
didn't want my kind of help. All he 
wanted was my blind adoration, the 
kind of unthinking love I had given 
him in such abundance when we were 
first married — the kind of love I didn't 
have to give any more. 

He spent less and less time at home. 
I did not think he was with another 
woman — several times I heard him 
make telephone dates with the man 
named Miller — but even if he had been 
I could not have found it in my heart 
to feel anything but pity. Yes — pity, I 
realized wonderingly. I did pity Gene. 
There must have been many women 
who would have been glad to accept 
48 him as he was: innocently selfish, 



spoiled, without conscience but in- 
finitely charming when things went 
well for him. It wasn't his fault that 
he'd married someone who wanted 
more. 

It was on one of the evenings when 
I was all alone in the house that Tim 
walked in unexpectedly. He rang the 
doorbell, but before I could answer he 
was in the hallway, dropping his bat- 
tered suitcase on the floor with a 
thump and crying, "Arda! Gene! Any- 
body home?" 

"Tim!" I cried, the short, beloved 
little word sticking in my throat and 
then coming out with a gasp. In one 
bound he crossed the hall and swept 
me into a great bear-hug. In the ex- 
citement of his sudden appearance I 
forgot everything but my hunger for 
him and unthinkingly, instinctively, 
answered his embrace, straining my 
body against his. Only for an instant, 
though, before I remembered that this 
was my husband's brother, who must 
never know how much I loved him — 
must never know, even, that my mar- 
riage to his adored Gene was not 
perfect — and I pulled away, the hot 
blood flooding my skin, stammering 
confusedly: 

"Tim — for goodness' sake — you took 
me by surprise — " 

To my shame, I saw that he had felt 
the unrestrained passion of that mo- 
ment, for as he released me his eyes 
flicked over me and then away in 
something very like embarrassment. 
And his voice was a little too loud and 
hearty as he said, "I didn't know I was 
coming myself until I was practically 
on the train! Where's that no-good 
brother of mine?" 

"Why — downtown. Something to do 
with his job at the plant," I said 
quickly. "He'll be home any minute." 

Oh, please, I was thinking, let that 
be true. Let Gene come home soon — at 
once — because if he doesn't how can I 
sit alone with Tim, make polite con- 
versation with him, without letting him 
see how much he means to me? 

But it developed that Tim hadn't 
had anything to eat — the dining car on 
the train had been too crowded — and I 
was thankful for the opportunity to 
bustle around the kitchen, frying bacon 
and scrambling eggs, measuring coffee 
into the percolator with my back 
turned to Tim so he wouldn't see how 
my hands were shaking. I took as long 
as I could to prepare the food, and 
while Tim ate kept plying him with 



more. I must keep busy, must hid& 
behind a screen of activity, so that he 
wouldn't see what was in my heart — 
so that he'd forget how desperately I 
had held him to me in the hall. 

And still, with another part of me, I 
knew how precious this little time was. 
An hour alone with Tim, in the warm 
kitchen, seeing him eat food prepared, 
with my hands — oh, this was something 
to be treasured forever! 

Reality returned when I glanced up 
from my seat across the table from Tim 
to see Gene standing quietly in the door- 
way, his face blank and closed-in 
looking. I had no idea how long he'd 
been there, watching us— no idea what [ 
he'd seen or heard. And then, in the 
split-second of recognition, I reminded 
myself that he could have seen or heard 
nothing, for the very good reason that 
nothing had been done or said. 

"Gene!" I said, too brightly, too 
loudly. "Look who just showed up!" 

He came into the room, smiling so 
suddenly and so delightedly that it was 
hard for me to believe I'd just seen 
him with his eyes dead and his lips 
closed tight over clenched teeth. "For 
the Lord's sake!" he said. "Here's the 
old brass-hat back again." 

They shook hands in the hard, quick 
way that men have, while I stood by, 
trying to read a meaning into the ex- 
pression I had seen on Gene's face when 
I first looked up. Had he guessed, 
watching me, the love I felt for Tim^ 
had he seen it, shining from me like a 
light? But I realized, even as I con 
sidered the possibility, that I didn't 
care if he had. He could know — it 
made no difference to me. The only one 
who must not know was Tim himself. 

But one thing I was sure of. For 
some reason, Gene was displeased at 
having Tim home again. I knew that 
as certainly as I knew my own name. 

He hid it well. He sat down at thej 
kitchen table and had a cup of the 
extra-strong coffee I'd made for Tim 
and talked easily and naturally, about 
his job, in the experimental section o: 
the airplane-instruments factory, about 
the way the town was filled with peo- 
ple, about simple, everyday things. 

Only at the last, as he set down his 
empty cup, he remarked quietly, "This 
leave of yours — does it mean what J 
think it means?" 

"Why—" Tim hesitated, but he'c 
never been able to lie. "Yes," he said. 
"I guess I'll be leaving the country as 

Of 






I 

He 



soon as my fifteen days are up. 



ill 







course I don't know where. . . ." 

A sensation of bitter cold crept all 
over me. I'd known, of course, that a 
soldier must go away and fight, but in 
my heart I had never believed that 
they'd take Tim. Not Tim . . . crawling 
through steaming jungles, a target for 
rending steel. Not Tim. 

Without turning my head, I knew 
that Gene was watching me. Well then, 
tie knew, or at least he suspected. It 
didn't matter, but I could play the 
game out. I forced the stiff muscles of 
my lips to move. 

"You didn't want to tell us, did you, 
Tim?" I said. "So we'll pretend you 
didn't, and just have a good time while 
you're here." 

•That's the idea, Arda," Tim said in 



relief. Gene was silent, his mouth 
curved sardonically. . 

Fifteen days, I thought while I 
stacked the dishes in the sink and 
began to wash them. Such a short time, 
then at its end Tim would be gone, 
perhaps forever. Such a long time, 
when every minute of it I must pre- 
tend, must fight against the craving to 
touch him! 

Gene and Tim were still at the table, 
talking, when I finished the dishes, and 
I said, "I'm rather tired, so I think I'll 
go on up to bed and let you two visit." 
It was an escape. Now I could lie 
silent, as if I were asleep, when Gene 
came up. It would have been torture 
to be alone with him — alone with his 
quick mind which could probe so ac- 



curately into mine. Alone — so infinitely 
worse — with the possibility that he 
might take the opportunity of remind- 
ing me that I was still his wife. 

Long after he had come up and 
quietly undressed in the dim light 
shining in from the hall, long after his 
steady breathing in the bed next to 
mine told me he was asleep, I lay with 
my eyes wide open, staring at the pale 
square of the window. I was thinking, 
there will be fourteen more nights like 
this, nights when the nerve-ends of my 
skin will almost feel Tim's presence 
under this (Continued on page 74) 49 





Whether or not you have a Vic- 
tory garden, you should do some 
extensive canning this summer so 
that you will have your favorite 
vegetables and fruits in December. 
The process is simple if you fol- 
low directions given here. Start 
with sweet potatoes and peaches. 




FOOD for 1XT WINTER 



50 



NOW that your Victory garden is 
planted — some of the vegetables 
are already showing through the 
ground — the next thing to think about 
is canning. Whether you have done any 
canning before or not, you. may think 
the task ahead of you is a difficult one, 
but the results more than justify the 
effort and many of the headaches may 
be cured in advance by a little careful 
planning. 

First, whenever you plant a new 
crop, write down in your housekeeping 
book the date on which the crop should 
mature and plan to reserve time then 
for canning. Next, estimate how many 
quarts or pints of various foods you 
will need next winter and if your own 
garden won't furnish sufficient quan- 
tities arrange to buy local produce 
when it is plentiful and, consequently, 
at its most economical price. If yours is 
a large family you will probably want 
to use quart jars, but for the family 
of two adults and one or two children 
pint jars may suit your needs. 

A pressure cooker is an economy 
where great quantities of food are to 
be put up, but processing in a hot 
water bath is satisfactory for small 
quantity preparation. The hot water 
bath cooker is simply a kettle with a 
tight fitting lid and a wood or metal 
rack which holds the jars at least half 
an inch from the bottom of the kettle. 
The kettle must be big enough so that 
the jars will not touch each other and 
deep enough for the boiling water to 



cover the jars by at least one inch. 
Other important canning points are: 
Always sterilize jars by washing, rins- 
ing and then boiling (together with 
tops and rubbers) for 20 minutes. Be 
sure that the water boils all during 
the processing time (add more boiling 
water if it boils away). Count the 
processing time from the minute the 
water begins to boil after the jars 
have been placed in the cooker. Read 
carefully the directions that come with 
the jars you buy to learn whether 
jars are to be completely or only 
partly sealed before processing. 

We have all discovered in the last 
few years the convenience of canned 
sweet potatoes and onions so I am 
going to start with recipes for canning 
them. 

Sweet Potatoes 

Sweet potatoes should be canned as 



BY 
KATE SMITH 

RADIO MIRROR'S 
FOOD COUNSELOR 

Listen to Kate Smith's 
daily talks at noon 
and her Friday show 
at 8.00 P. M.. EWT. 
both on CBS, sponsor- 
ed by General Foods. 








quickly after digging as possible. Se- 
lect potatoes of uniform size, wash 
and cook in boiling water until skins 
can be removed easily. Slice and pack 
into hot sterilized jars. Seal or partly 
seal jars as directed and place on rack 
in kettle. Cover with boiling water, 
and cook, covered, for 4 hours. 

Onions 

Small onions of uniform size are best 
for canning. Peel onions and cook for 
5 minutes in boiling water. Pack into 
hot sterilized jars and add Vz tsp. salt to 
each pint jar. Bring water in which 
onions were cooked to a boil, adding 
sufficient freshly boiled water to make 
liquid enough to fill all jars. Seal as 
directed and process for 3 hours. 

Spinach 

Remove coarse stems from spinach, 
wash thoroughly and steam until leaves 
are wilted, using only the water which 
clings to the leaves after washing. Put 
into hot sterilized jars, packing tightly. 
Add Vz tsp. salt to each pint jar and 
cover with boiling water. Seal as 
directed and {Continued on page 87) 



INSIDE RADIO -Telling You About Programs and People You Want to Hear 



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News and Organ 
News 

News and Organ Recital 
Musical Masterpieces 
The Woodshedders 
Golden Gate Quartet 
News of the World 
Robert Bellaire — News 
News from Europe 
E. Power Biggs 
Whit* Rabbit Lino 
Commando Mary 
Marcia Neil 
English Melodies 

Church of the Air 

Fantasy in Melody 

Radio Pulpit 

Wings Over Jordan 

Southernaires 

Warren Sweeney, News 

Will Osborne's Orch. 

Egon Petri, Pianist 

Radio Chapel 

Josef Marais 

Invitation to Learning 

Olivio Sahtoro 

Transatlantic Call 

News from Europe 

Emma Otero 

Salt Lake City Tabernacle 

Stars from the Blue 

That They Might Live 

Church of the Air 

Horace Heidt Orch. 

Rupert Hughes 

Labor lor Victory 

Quincy Howe 

We Believe 

Stoopnagle's Stooparoos 

Martin Agronsky 

Those We Love 

Chaplain Jim, U. S. A. 

University of Chicago Round 

Table 
World News Today 
John Charles Thomas 
Sammy Kaye's Orch. 
Aunt Jemima 
Columbia Broadcasting 

Symphony 
Moylan Sisters 
Reports on Rationing 
Wake Up America 
Upton Close 
The Army Hour 
National Vespers 
Pause that Refreshes 
Green Hornet 
Lands of the Free 
Summer Symphony — Dr. 

Frank Black 
The Family Hour 
Gunther & Vandercook 
Ella Fitzgerald 
Upton Close 
Musical Steelmakers 
The Shadow 
William L. Shirer 
Edward R. Murrow 
Here's to Romance 
First Nighter 
Catholic Hour 
Irene Rich 
Gene Autry 
Arch Obeler Drama 
The Great Gildersleeve 
Chips Davis, Commando 
Voice of Prophecy 
Drew Pearson 
Jack Benny 

Edward Tomlinson 

Stars and Stripes in Britain 

We, the People 

Quiz Kids 

Fitch Bandwagon 

Corliss Archer 

Roy Porter, News 

Charlie McCarthy 

Crime Doctor 

Inner Sanctum Mystery 

ONE MAN'S FAMILY 

Gabriel Heatter 

Eric Sevareid 

Radio Reader's Digest 

Old-Fashioned Revival 

Walter Winched 

Manhattan Merry-Go-Round 

Chamber Music Society of 

Lower Basin St. 
FRED ALLEN 
Jlmmle Fidler 
American Album of 

Familiar Music 
Dorothy Thompson 
Take It or Leave It 
Goodwill Hour 
John B. Hughes 
Hour of Charm 
The Man Behind tho Gun 
Eric Sevareid 
Larry Lesueur 
Tommy Tucker Orchestra 
Cesar Saerchlnger 
Glen Gray 
Unlimited Horizon* 




MORE ABOUT MOORE... 

Thomas Garrison Morflt, known to the 
followers of screwball comedy as Garry 
Moore, has an incurable passion for crew 
haircuts and greets amazed strangers with, 
"What did you expect? Feathers?" He 
weighs only 145 pounds, with a rock in each 
hand, has a wild but lovable face, mad 
brown eyes and light brown hair. Garry 
wears clothes that would put a Hollywood 
screen writer to shame, his slacks are loud, 
his coats are zooty. To give you a few 
simpler statistics about the simple Mr. 
Moore, he was born in Baltimore, Mary- 
land, 28 years ago and he is married, is a 
father, and has a home in a suburb of New 
York. And, oh yes, he is radio's newest 
and most sensational comedian, now pinch- 
hitting for Abbott and Costello on Thurs- 
day nights at 10: 00 EWT on NBC. 

Garry needed a job, so he joined station 
WBAL in Baltimore as a continuity writer. 
One day the comedian of WBAL's only 
comedy show took sick and the manager 
rushed Garry in to fill the spot. Garry 
wound up with a permanent assignment. 
Only Garry didn't like being a comedian, 
so he quit and went to St. Louis and became 
a sports and news announcer. He wasn't 
at the St. Louis station long, before he was 
asked to handle a comedy show. He tried 
to get out of it by stating he didn't know a 
thing about comedy. The gag didn't work. 
Garry stood being a comedian for seven 
long months. Finally, he gave it up. He 
handed in his two weeks' notice, stuck his 
hands in his pockets and started out of 
the studio whistling. When he got home 
there was a call for him from NBC in 
Chicago. They wanted him to take over 
the Club Matinee show. Garry gave up, 
decided he was a comedian, after all. 

For two years, Garry wowed 'em on the 
Club Matinee, writing script in addition to 
starring on the show. Then, in August, 1942, 
with Club Matinee on the Blue network, 
Garry moved to New York at the request 
of NBC and started to build a new morning 
show. Out of that grew Everything Goes. 

After several guest appearances on 
Comedy Caravan, Garry Moore's name was 
being tossed like a ball about radio and 
agency men and network officials were 
deluged with sponsors who wanted him for 
a comedian on a big nighttime, commercial. 
When Lou Costello took sick, Garry was 
rushed in to fill that spot. That's where he 
is now and the Hopes and Skeltons have 
moved over to give him room. Along with 
the irrepressible Jimmy Durante, he is pro- 
viding American listeners with laughs 
enough to last them through this war time. 

His ambition is to do a broadcast from 
a subway. "Because," says Garry, "that will 
be the first street on the man broadcast." 



MONDAY 



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Blue: 


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1:15 


2 


15 


NBC 


11:30 


1:30 


2 


30 


CBS: 


11:30 


1:30 


2 


30 


NBC 






2 


45 


Blue: 


11:45 


1:45 


2 


45 


CBS: 


11:45 


1:45 


2 


45 


NBC 




2:00 


3 


00 


CBS: 


12:00 


2:00 


3 


00 


Blue: 


12:00 


2:00 


3 


00 


NBC 


12:15 


2:15 


3 


15 


CBS: 


12:15 


2:15 


3 


15 


NBC 


12:15 


2:15 


3 


15 


Blue: 


12:30 


2:30 


3 


30 


NBC 


2:30 


2:30 


3 


30 


CBS: 


12:45 


2:45 


3 


:45 


NBC 


12:45 


2:45 


3 


.45 


Blue: 


1:00 


3:00 


4 


:00 


CBS: 


1:00 


3:00 


4 


00 


Blue: 


1:00 


3:00 


4 


00 


NBC 


1:15 


3:15 


4 


15 


NBC 


1:15 


3:15 


4 


15 


CBS: 


1:30 


3:30 


4 


30 


Blue: 


1:30 


3:30 


4 


30 


NBC 


1:45 


3:45 


4 


45 


CBS: 






4 


45 


Blue: 


1:45 


3:45 


4 


45 


NBC 


2:00 


4:00 


5 


00 


CBS: 


2:00 


4:00 


5 


00 


Blue: 


2:00 


4:00 


5 


00 


NBC 


2:15 


4:15 


5 


:15 


CBS: 


2:15 


4:15 


5 


15 


NBC 


2:30 


4:30 


5 


.30 


CBS: 


5:30 


5:30 


5 


30 


Blue: 


2:30 


4:30 


5 


30 


NBC 


2:30 


4:30 


5 


:30 


MBS 


2:45 


4:45 


5 


:45 


NBC 


2:45 


4:45 


5 


•45 


CBS: 


5:45 


5:45 


5 


45 


Blue: 


3:00 


5:00 


6 


00 


CBS: 


3:10 


5:10 


6 


10 


CBS: 


3:15 


5:15 


6 


15 


CBS: 


3:30 


5:30 


6 


30 


CBS: 


3:45 


5:45 


6 


45 


CBS: 






6 


45 


Blue: 


4:00 


6:00 


7 


00 


CBS: 


4:00 


6:00 


7 


00 


Blue: 


8:00 


6:00 


7 


00 


NBC 






7 


05 


Blue: 


4:15 


6:15 


7 


15 


CBS: 


7:30 


9:30 


7 


30 


CBS: 




6:30 


7 


30 


Blue: 


4:45 


6:45 


7 


45 


NBC. 


5:00 


7:00 


8 


00 


CBS: 


8:00 


7:00 


8 


00 


Blue: 


8:30 


7:00 


8 


00 


NBC: 


8:15 


7:15 


8 


15 


Blue: 


8:30 


7:30 


8 


30 


CBS: 


5:30 


7:30 


8 


30 


Blue: 


5:30 


7:30 


8 


30 


NBC: 


5:30 


7:30 


8 


30 


MBS: 


5:55 


7:55 


8 


55 


CBS: 


6:00 


8:00 


9 


00 


CBS: 


6:00 


8:00 


9 


00 


Blue: 


6:00 


8:00 


9 


00 


MBS: 


9:00 


8:00 


9 


00 


NBC: 


6:30 


8:30 


9 


30 


Blue: 


6:30 


8:30 


9 


30 


NBC: 


6:55 


8:55 


9 


55 


Blue: 


7:00 


9:00 


10 


00 


CBS: 


7:00 


9:00 


10 


00 


MBS: 


7:00 


9:00 


10 


00 


Blue: 


7:00 


9:00 


10 


00 


NBC: 


8:30 


9:15 


10 


15 


Blue: 


7:30 


9:30 


10 


30 


NBC: 


7:30 


9:30 


10 


30 ( CBS: 






10 


30 


Blue: 



News 

BREAKFAST CLUB 

Chapel Singers 

This Life is Mine 

Sing Along 

Valiant Lady 

Isabel Manning Hewson 

Robert St. John, News 

Kitty Foyle 

Roy Porter, News 

The O'Neills 

Honeymoon Hill 

The Baby Institute 

Help Mate 

Bachelor's Children 

Gene & Glenn 

A Woman of America 

God's Country 

Breakfast at Sardi's 

Road of Life 

Second Husband 

Vic and Sade 

Bright Horizon 

Jack Baker. Songs 

Snow Village 

Aunt Jenny's Stories 

Little Jack Little 

David Harum 

KATE SMITH SPEAKS 

Big Sister 

Romance of Helen Trent 

Farm and Home Hour 

Our Gal Sunday 

Life Can Be Beautiful 

Baukhage Talking 

Ma Perkins 

Edward MacHugh 

Vic and Sade 

The Goldbergs 

Vincent Lopez Orch. 

Carey Long mire. News 

Young Dr. Malone 

Light of the World 

Joyce Jordan, M.D. 

Mystery Chef 

Lonely Women 

We Love and Learn 

The Guiding Light 

Stella Linger 

Pepper Young's Family 

Hymns of All Churches 

News 

Morton Downey 

Mary Marlin 

Joe & Ethel Turp 

Ma Perkins 

My True Story 

Pepper Young's Family 

Green Valley, U.S.A. 

Right to Happiness 

Ted Malone 

Your Home Front Reporter 

Club Matinee 

Backstage Wife 

Stella Dallas 

Perry Como, Songs 

Men of the Sea 

Lorenzo Jones 

Mountain Music 

Sea Hound 

Young Widder Brown 

Madeleine Carroll Reads 

Hop Harrigan 

When a Girl Marries 

Mother and Dad 

Portia Faces Life 

Are You a Genius 

Jack Armstrong 

Just Plain Bill 

Superman 

Front Page Farrell 

Keep the Home Fires Burning 

Captain Midnight 

Quincy Howe 

Eric Sevareid 

Today at the Duncan, 

Keep Working, Keep Singing 

The World Today 

Lowell Thomas 

I Love a Mystery 

Victor Borge 

Fred Waring's Gang 

Coast Guard Dance Band 

Ceiling Unlimited 

Blondie 

The Lone Ranger 

H. V. Kaltenborn 

Vox Pop 

Earl Godwin, News 

Cavalcade of America 

Lum and Abner 

GAY NINETIES 

True or False 

Voice of Firestone 

Bulldog Drummond 

Cecil Brown 

LUX THEATER 

Counter-Spy 

Gabriel Heatter 

The Telephone Hour 

Spotlight Bands 

Doctor I. Q. 

Dale Carnegie 

Screen Guild Players 

Raymond Clapper 

Raymond Gram Swing 

Contented Program 

Gracie Fields 

Information Please 

Three Ring Time 

Alec Templeton 



51 



* 



TUESDAY 



1:30 



8:30 



8:45 
9:00 



12:45 



:00 



O 

8:00 
8:00 
8:00 
2:30 
8:45 



Eastern War Time 



8 
9 
9 
9 
9 
9 
, 9 
9:00 10 
9:00 10 
9:00 10 
9:1510 
9:15 10 
9:15 10 
9:30 10 
9:30 10 
9:30 10 
9:45 10 
9:45 10 
9:45 10 
...J 10:00 11 
8:00 10:00 11 
8:00 10:00 11 
8:15 10:15 11 
8:15 10:15 11 
8:30 10:30 11 
8:30 10:30 11 
1:30 10:30 11 



11:15 
8:45 



10:15 11 
10:45 11 
10:45 11 
11:00 12 
U:15il2 
11:30 12 
11:30 12 
11:45 12 
12:00 1 



9:00 

9:15 

9:15 

9:30 

9:45 

10:00 __ 

10:00 12:00 

10:00 12:00 

10:15 12:15 

10:15 12:15 

10:30 12:30 

12:45 

10:45 12:45 

1:00 

1:00 

1:15 



52 



11:00 
11:00 
12:30 
11:15 
11:30 
11:30 
11:30 
11:45 
11:45 

12:00 

12:00 

12:15 

12:15 

12:15 

12:30 

12:30 

12:45 

12:45 

1:00 

1:00 

1:00 

1:15 

1:15 

1:30 
1:30 

1:45 

1:45 
2:00 
2:00 
2:00 
2:15 
2:15 
2:30 
5:30 
2:30 
2:30 
2:45 
5:45 
2:45 
7:45 
3:15 
3:30 
3:30 
3:45 



4:00 
8:00 
4:00 
4:15 
4:15 
4:15 
4:30 
4:45 
8:30 
8:30 
8:30 
8:15 
9:00 
9:00 
5:55 
6:00 
6:00 
6:00 
6:00 
6:30 
6:30 
6:30 
6:30 
6:55 
7:00 
7:00 
7:00 
7:00 
7:15 
7:30 

7:45 



1:15 
1:30 
1:30 
1:30 
1:45 
1:45 
2:00 
2:00 
2:00 
2:15 
2:15 
2:15 
2:30 
2:30 
2:45 
2:45 
3:00 
3:00 
3:00 
3:15 
3:15 
4:25 
3:30 
3:30 

3:45 

3:45 
4:00 
4:00 
4:00 
4:15 
4:15 
4:30 
5:30 
4:30 
4:30 
4:45 
5:45 
4:45 
5:00 
5:15 
5:30 
5:30 
5:45 



6:00 

6:00 

6:00 

6:15 

6:15 

6:15 

6:30 

6:45 

7:00 

7:00 

7:00 

7:15 

7:30 

7:30 

7:55 

8:00 

8:00 

8:00 

8:00 

8:30 

8:30 

8:30 

8:30 

8:55 

9:00 

9:00 

9:00 

9:00 

9:1 

9:30 



30 Blue: Texas Jim 

OOl'KS: News 

00 Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB 

00 NBC: Everything Goes 

15JCBS: Melodic Moments 

30 CBS: This Life is Mine 

45 CBS: Sing Along 

00 CBS: Valiant Lady 

00 Blue: Isabel Manning Hewson 

00 NBC: Robert St. John, News 

15 CBS: Kitty Foyle 

15 Blue: News 

15 NBC: The O'Neills 

30 CBS: Honeymoon Hill 

30 Blue: Baby Institute 

30 NBC: Help Mate 

45 CBS: Bachelor's Children 

4b Blue: Gene & Glenn 

45 NBC: A Woman of America 

00 CBS: Mary Lee Taylor 

00 Blue: Breakfast at Sardi's 

00 NBC: Road of Life 

15 CBS: Second Husband 

15 NBC: Vic and Sade 

30 IBS: Bright Horizon 

30! Blue: Hank Lawson's Knights 

30 NBC: Snow Village 

CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories 
Blue: Little Jack Little 
NBC: David Harum 
CBS: Kate Smith Speaks 
CBS: Big Sister 
CBS: Romance of Helen Trent 
Blue: Farm and Home Hour 
CBS: Our Gal Sunday 
CBS: Life Can Be Beautiful 
Blue: Baukhage Talking 
NBC: Air Breaks 
CBS: Ma Perkins 
Blue: Edward MacHugh 
CBS: Vic and Sade 
CBS: The Goldbergs 
NBC: Carey Longmire, News 
CBS: Young Dr. Malone 
NBC: Light of the World 
Joyce Jordan, M.D. 
Lonely Women 
We Love and Learn 
Victory Hour 
The Guiding Light 
Pepper Young's Family 
Hymns of All Churches 
News 

Morton Downey 
Mary Marlin 
Joe & Ethel Turp 
My True Story 
Ma Perkins 
Green Valley, U.S.A. 
Pepper Young's Family 
Right to Happiness 
Ted Malone 

Your Home Front Reporter 
Club Matinee 
Backstage Wife 
Green Valley, U. S. A. 
Stella Dallas 
News 

Lorenzo Jones 
Men of the Sea 
Perry Como, Songs 
Mountain Music 
Sea Hound 

Young Widder Brown 
Madeleine Carroll Reads 
Hop Harrigan 
When a Girl Marries 
Mother and Dad 
Portia Faces Life 



CBS: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

Blue: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

Blue: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

Blue: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

NBC: 

NBC: 

Blue: 

CBS: 

Blue: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

NBC: 

Blue: 

CBS: 

CBS: 

Blue: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

Blue: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

Blue: 

MBS: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

Blue: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

CBS: 

NBC: 

CBS: 

CBS: 

Blue: 

CBS: 



7:00 Blue: 
7:00 NBC: 
7:00 CBS: 



7:15 
7:15 
7:15 
7:30 
7:45 
8:00 
8:00 
8:00 
8:15 
8:30 
8:30 
8:55 
9:00 
9:00 
9:00 
9:00 
9:30 
9:30 



CBS: 
Blue: 
NBC: 
CBS: 
NBC: 
CBS: 
Blue: 
NBC: 
Blue: 
CBS: 
Blue: 
CBS: 
CBS: 
MBS: 
Blue: 
NBC: 
CBS: 
Blue 



9:30JMBS 

9:30 

9:SS 
10:00 
10:00 



NBC: 
Blue: 
MBS: 
Blue: 
10:00 NBC: 
10:00 CBS: 
10:15 Blue: 
10:30INBC: 
10:30 CBS: 
10:4j'cBS: 



Are You A Genius 

Jack Armstrong 

Superman 

Just Plain Bill 

Keep The Home Fires Burning 

Captain Midnight 

Front Page Farrell 

Frazier Hunt 

Edwin C. Hill 

Bill Stern 

John B. Kennedy 

The World Today 

Lowell Thomas 

Meaning of the News, Joseph' 

C. Harsch 
Victor Borge 
Fred Warlng's Gang 
I Love A Mystery 
Harry James 

Men, Machines and Victory 
European News 
American Melody Hour 
Salute to Youth 
Lights Out 
Earl Godwin, News 
Ginny Simms 
Lum and Abner 
Al Jolson 
Duffy's 
Cecil Brown 
Burnt and Allen 
Gabriel Heatter 
Famous Jury Trials 
Battle of the Sexes 
Suspense 
Spotlight Bands 
Murder Clinic 
Fibber McGee and Molly 
Date Carnegie 
John B. Hughes 
Raymond Gram Swing 
Bob Hope 
Jazz Laboratory 
Grade Fields 
Red Skelton 
Congress Speaks 
Mary Small Sings 




COCKNEY DAISY... 

Listeners to Young Doctor Malone, heard 
over CBS at 2 p.m., EWT daily, have come 
to love a wonderful cockney charlady 
known, simply, as "Daisy." They write 
countless numbers of letters to her, wanting 
to know how long ago she left England and 
whether or not the cockney accent is gen- 
uine. One woman even wrote and asked 
Daisy to take her back home to England 
when she decided to go. So, we hate to tell 
you this, but dear Daisy is not an English- 
woman. Her name in real life is Ethel 
Morrison and she was born in Wellington, 
New Zealand. 

Ethel is a newcomer to radio, a delight- 
ful lady with a merry twinkle in her blue 
eyes and a quick, wonderful sense of humor. 
She is fast becoming one of the finest char- 
acter actors on the air and her Daisy will 
be around, we are pleased to announce, for 
a long, long while to come. Ethel has lived 
in London. She studied music at the Royal 
Academy. During this time she became 
very interested in the girls who sold flowers 
around Piccadilly Circus. If any of you re- 
member the girl in George Bernard Shaw's 
"Pygmalion," you will know just the sort 
of young girls Ethel studied. She would 
go to Piccadilly Circus and chat with 
them for hours on end, picking up their 
quaint mannerisms and watching their reac- 
tions to the life that flowed around them. 
So, lovers of Daisy, if Daisy is not authen- 
tic, at least she is genuine. She is genuine 
and she is so real that English people are 
fooled by her. All this is quite a tribute 
to Ethel and her artistry, even if it is dis- 
illusioning. One radio listener sends 
"Daisy" a box of flowers from her own 
Victory Garden every Monday morning 
from early Spring until the last chrysan- 
themums bloom in the Fall. 

Ethel is a trouper and would undoubtedly 
go right on playing, whether she ever be- 
came famous or not. She played light 
comedy in Australia with Marie Tempest, 
then came to America, in 1924, to do the 
"Farmer's Wife." Then back to Australia 
for a few more years, playing stock all over 
that continent. Since she has been in 
America, Ethel has appeared in Broadway 
plays too numerous to mention, has ap- 
peared with most of the great names in the 
American theater. Although radio was a 
new technique to her, she was so much at 
ease, even during her first broadcast, that 
those on the show with her thought her to 
be a veteran radio performer. 

Good music is first on the list of Ethel's 
diversions, reading is second. Whenever 
she can get a hold of a spade, she joins her 
friends in Victory gardening. She loves to 
watch things grow, which is unusual for a 
woman who has moved around so much all 
her life. In her spare time, Ethel has 
knitted literally hundreds of sweaters for 
the British soldiers. Her yarn, her knitting 
needles, her quick, warm smiles are a fa- 
miliar sight to her radio friends. 



r- 

s 

6 

8:00 
8:00 
8:00 
2:30 

8:45 



WEDNESDAY 



Eastern War Time 



9:00 « 
9:00 " 
9:00" 
9:15 110 



8:00 
8:00 
8:15 
8:15 
8:30 
8:30 
8:30 
11:15 
8:45 

9:00 

9:00 

9:15 

9:30 

9:30 

9:45 

10:00 

10:00 

10:15 

10:15 

10:30 

10:45 
11:00 
11:00 
12:30 
11:15 
11:30 
11:30 
11:30 
11:45 
11:45 
11:45 

12:00 

12:00 

12:15 

12:15 

12:15 

12:30 

12:30 

12:45 

12:45 

1:00 

1:00 

1:15 

1:15 

1:30 

1:30 



9:15 

9:15 

9:30 

9:30 

9:30 

9:45 

9:45 

9:45 

10:00 

10:00 

10:15 

10:15 

10:30 

10:30 

10:30 

10:45 

10:45 

10:45 

11:00 

11:00 

11:15 

11:30 

11:30 

11:45 

12:00 

12:00 

12:15 

12:15 

12:30 

12:45 

12:45 

1:00 

1:00 

1:15 

1:15 

1:30 

1:30 

1:30 

1:45 

1:45 

1:45 

2:00 

2:00 

2:00 

2:15 

2:15 

2:15 

2:30 

2:30 

2:45 

2:45 

3:00 

3:00 

3:15 

3:15 

3:30 

3:30 



1:45 
1:45 
2:00 
2:00 
2:00 
2:15 
2:15 
2:30 
5:30 
2:30 
2:30 
2:45 
5:45 
2:45 

3:10 
3:15 
3:30 
3:45 



4:00 
4:00 

8:15 
4:15 
4:30 

4:45 
4:45 
5:00 
8:00 
9:15 

8:15 
8:30 
8:30 
5:30 
5:55 
6:00 
6:00 
6:00 
6:00 
6:30 
6:30 
6:30 
6:55 
7:00 
7:00 
7:00 
7:00 
7:15 
7:30 



3:45 
3:45 
4:00 
4:00 
4:00 
4:15 
4:15 
4:30 
5:30 
4:30 
4:30 
4:45 
5:45 
4:45 
5:00 
5:10 
5:15 
5:30 
5:45 



6:00 
6:00 

6:15 
6:15 
6:30 
6:30 
6:45 
6:45 
7:00 
7:00 
7:00 
7:00 
7:15 
7:30 
7:30 
7:30 
7:55 
8:00 
8:00 
8:00 
8:00 
8:30 
8:30 
8:30 
8:55 
9:00 
9:00 
9:00 
9:00 
9:15 
9:30 



30 Blue: Texas Time 

00 CBS: News 

00 Blue: Breakfast Club 

00 NBC: Everything Goes 

15 CBS: Chapel Singers 

30 CBS: This Life is Mine 

45 CBS: Sing Along 

00 CBS: Valiant Lady 

OOjBlue: Isabel Manning Hewson 

00 NBC: Robert St. John 

15 CBS: Kitty Foyle 

15 Blue: News 

15 NBC: The O'Neills 

30 CBS: Honeymoon Hill 

30 Blue: Baby Institute 

30 NBC: Help Mate 

45 CBS: Bachelor's Children 

45 Blue: Gene & Glenn 

45 NBC: A Woman of America 

00 Blue: Breakfast at Sardi's 

00 NBC: Road of Life 

15 CBS: Second Husband 

15 NBC: Vic and Sade 

30 CBS: Bright Horizon 

30 Blue: Hank Lawson's Knights 

30 NBC: Snow Village 

45 CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories 

45 Blue: Little Jack Little 

45 NBC: David Harum 

00 CBS: Kate Smith Speaks 

00 NBC: Words and Music 

15 CBS: Big Sister 

30 CBS: Romance of Helen Trent 

30 Blue: Farm and Home Hour 

45 CBS: Our Gal Sunday 

00 CBS: Life Can Be Beautiful 

00 Blue: Baukhage Talking 

15 CBS: Ma Perkins 

15 Blue: Edward MacHugh 

30 CBS: Vic and Sade 

45 CBS: The Goldbergs 

45 NBC: Carey Longmire, News 

00 CBS: Young Dr. Malone 

00 NBC: Light of the World 

15 CBS: Joyce Jordan, M.D. 

15 NBC: Lonely Women 

30 CBS: We Love and Learn 

30 Blue: James McDonald 

30 NBC: The Guiding Light 

45 CBS: Pepper Young's Family 

45 Blue: Stella Unger 

45 NBC: Hymns of All Churches 

00 CBS: News 

00 Blue: Morton Downey 

00 NBC: Mary Marlin 

15 CBS: Joe & Ethel Turp 

15 Blue: My True Story 

15 NBC: Ma Perkins 

30 CBS: Green Valley Days 

30 NBC: Pepper Young's Family 

45 NBC: Right to Happiness 

45 Blue: Ted Malone 

00 Blue: Club Matinee 

00 NBC: Backstage Wife 

15 NBC: Stella Dallas 

15 CBS: Green Valley, U.S.A. 

30 Blue: Men of the Sea 

30 NBC: Lorenzo Jones 

30 CBS: PerryjComo, Songs 

45 Blue: Sea Hound 

45 CBS: Mountain Music 

45 NBC: Young Widder Brown 

00 CBS: Madeleine Carroll Reads 

00 Blue: Hop Harrigan 

00 NBC: When a Girl Marries 

15 CBS: Mother and Dad 

15 NBC: Portia Faces Life 

30 CBS: Are You a Genius 

30 Blue: Jack Armstrong 

30 MBS: Superman 

30 NBC: Just Plain Bill 

45 CBS: Keep The Home Fires Burning 

45 Blue: Captain Midnight 

45 NBC: Front Page Farrell 

00 CBS: Quincy Howe, News 

10 CBS: Eric Sevareid 

15 CBS: Today at the Duncans 

30 CBS: Keep Working, Keep Singing 

45 CBS: The World Today 

45 Blue: Lowell Thomas 

55 CBS: Meaning of the News 

00 Blue: Victor Borge 

00 NBC: Fred Waring's Gang 

00 CBS: I Love A Mystery 

15 CBS: Harry James 

IS NBC: European News 

30 CBS: Easy Aces 

30 Blue: The Lone Ranger 

45 CBS: Mr. Keen 

45 NBC: H. V. Kaltenborn 

00 CBS: Sammy Kaye Orch. 

00 Blue: Earl Godwin, News 

00 MBS: Cal Tinney 

00 NBC: Mr. and Mrs. North 

IS Blue: Lum and Abner 

30 CBS: Dr. Christian 

30 Blue: Manhattan at Midnight 

30 NBC: Tommy Dorsey 

55 CBS: Cecil Brown 

00 CBS: The Mayor of the Town 
00 MBS: Gabriel Heatter 

00 Blue: John Freedom 
00 NBC: Eddie Cantor 

30 CBS: Milton Berle 

30 Blue: Spotlight Bands 
30 NBC: Mr. District Attorney 

55 Blue: Dale Carnegie 

10:00 CBS: Great Moments in Music 
10:00 MBS: John B. Hughes 
10:00 NBC: Kay Kyser 

10:00 Blue: Raymond Gram Swing 

10:15 Blue: Grade Fields 

10:30 CBS: Cresta Blanca Carnival 

30 Blue: Alec Templeton 



THURSDAY 



1:30 



8:30 



8:45 
9:00 



12:45 



8:00 



8:00 
8:00 
8:00 
2:30 

8:45 
9:00 
9:00 
9:00 
9:15 
9:15 
9:15 



Eastern War Time 



Eastern War Time 



8:30 1 Blue: 
9:00 CBS; 
9:00lBlue: 
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Texas Jim 

News 

Breakfast Club 

Everything Goes 

The Sophisticators 

This Life is Mine 

Sing Along 

Valiant Lady 

Isabel Manning Hewson 

Robert St. John 

Kitty Foyle 

News 

The O'Neills 

Honeymoon Hill 

Baby Institute 

Help Mate 

Bachelor's Children 

Gene & Glenn 

A Woman of America 

Mary Lee Taylor 

Breakfast at Sardi's 

Road of Life 

Second Husband 

Vic and Sade 

Bright Horizon 

Hank Lawson's Knights 

Snow Village 

Aunt Jenny's Stories 

Little Jack Little 

David Harum 

Kate Smith Speaks 

Words and Music 

Big Sister 

Romance of Helen Trent 

Farm and Home Hour 

Our Gal Sunday 

Life Can Be Beautiful 

Baukhage Talking 

Air Breaks 

Ma Perkins 

Edward MacHugh 

Vic and Sade 

The Goldbergs 

Carey Longmire, News 

Young Dr. Malone 

Light of the World 

Joyce Jordan, M.D. 

Lonely Women 

We Love and Learn 

James McDonald 

The Guiding Light 

Pepper Young's Family 

Stella linger 

Hymns of All Churches 

News 

Morton Downey 

Mary Marlin 

Joe & Ethel Turp 

My True Story 

Ma Perkins 

Green Valley, U.S.A. 

Pepper Young's Family 

Right to Happiness 

Ted Malone 

Your Home Front Reporter 

Club Matinee 

Backstage Wife 

Green Valley, U. S. A 

Stella Dallas 

News 

Perry Como, Songs 

Men of the Sea 

Lorenzo Jones 

Off the Record 

Sea Hound 

Young Widder Brown 

Madeleine Carroll Reads 

Hop Harrigan 

When a Girl Marries 

Mother and Dad 

Portia Faces Life 

Are You a Genius 

Jack Armstrong 

Superman 

Just Plain Bill 



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Keep the Home Fires Burning 

Captain Midnight 

Front Page Farrell 

Frazier Hunt 

Golden Gate Quartet 

John B. Kennedy 

Bill Stern 

The World Today 

Lowell Thomas 

Meaning of the News 

Victor Borge 

Fred Waring's Gang 

I Love a Mystery 

Those Good Old Days 

Harry James 

European News 

Easy Aces 

Bob Burns 

Mr. Keen 

Earl Godwin, News 

Coffee Time 

Grapevine Rancho 

Lum and Abner 

Death Valley Days 
America's Town Meeting 
ALDRICH FAMILY 
Cecil Brown 

Major Bowes 
Gabriel Heatter 
KRAFT MUSIC HALL 
Stage Door Canteen 
Spotlight Bands 
Rudy Vallee 
Dale Carnegie 
The First Line 
Raymond Clapper 
Raymond Gram Swing 
Garry Moore 
Grade Fields 
March of Time 
Talks 

Mary Small, Songi 
Ned Calmer, News 




I D A Y 



JOKY JOE. 



The litle guy above with the gamin grin 
is Joe Laurie, Jr., one of the three stars of 
NBC's zany program, Can You Top This? 
Joe refers to himself as a pint sized com- 
median and says he is so small that midgets 
look down on him. Just about every time 
Joe opens his mouth, out falls a gag pulled 
at random from the huge store of jokes, 
stories and puns he has amassed after years 
of service in all branches of the theater. 
Thirty years ago, Joe Laurie, Jr. was the 
youngest comedian on Broadway. Before 
that time, he sold newspapers on the side- 
walks of New York, along with other lads 
who have also since grown to be famous 
men. Joe traveled from vaudeville to 
musical comedy and then to radio. He not 
only wrote radio scripts for Eddie Cantor 
and Al Jolson, but has penned over 100 
vaudeville skits, has written plays, movies, 
articles and each week bangs out a column 
for Variety, the famous magazine about 
show business. 

Joe does not like fresh air and the open 
spaces. The famous Lambs Club is his fav- 
orite haunt. He spends most of his time 
there, swapping stories and shooting pool. 
Laurie's first professional engagement was 
in 1908, in a double act with Aleen Bron- 
son in the old Dewey Theater. They were 
a hit and worked together for years. Joe 
was also a monologist in an act for 20 years. 
He always introduced his mother and father 
to the audience because, "people won't 
throw eggs at an' aged couple." 

Heading Joe Laurie, Jr.'s stationery is a 
line from Mark Twain. "I don't give a damn 
for a man who can spell a word only one 
way." He chose this quotation, because his 
own spelling is remarkably original. In 
private life, Joe is married to an ex-chorus 
girl, June Tempest. A devoted husband 
and proud father, he has a twenty-two-year- 
old son, Joe Laurie III, who is serving with 
the Royal Canadian Air Force. Joe loves 
to wisecrack about how he met his wife. 
"I opened my wallet," he grins, "and there 
she was." 

Visiting the Laurie menage for the first 
time is an exciting experience, although 
slightly wearing. After you ring the door- 
bell and the door is opened you are jumped 
upon by a pack of hounds. Once inside, you 
wander around among Siamese cats, eight- 
een canaries, dozens of fish bowls, four 
dogs and other wild life. Through all this 
the Laurie gags flow unceasingly. 

Frequent visitors to the Laurie house are 
his two radio cronies, Senator Ed Ford and 
Harry Hershfield. Right now, Joe is work- 
ing on a book about vaudeville and its fasci- 
nating characters. Joe can do entire acts of 
vaudeville teams that toured the circuits 
twenty and more years ago. He can dance 
their routines, sing their songs and do the 
patter, which usually began when the pretty 
girl dropped the hanky in front of the big 
guy with the checked suit and the cane 



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Texas Jim 
News 

Breakfast Club 
: Everything Goes 

Chapel Singers 

This Life Is Mine 

Sing Along 

Valiant Lady 

Isabel Manning Hewson 

Robert St. John 

Kitty Foyle 

News 

The O'Neills 

Honeymoon Hill 

The Baby Institute 

Help Mate 

Bachelor's Children 

Gene & Glenn 

A Woman of America 

Breakfast at Sardi's 

Road of Life 

Second Husband 

Vic and Sade 

Bright Horizon 

Hank Lawson's Knights 

Snow Village 

Aunt Jenny's Stories 

Little Jack Little 

David Harum 

Kate Smith Speaks 

Words and Music 

Big Sister 

Romance of Helen Trent 

Farm and Home Hour 

Our Gal Sunday 

Life Can Be Beautiful 

Baukhage Talking 

Ma Perkins 

Vic and Sade 

The Goldbergs 

Carey Longmire, News 

Young Dr. Malone 

Light of the World 

Joyce Jordan, M.D. 

Lonely Women 

We Love and Learn 

James McDonald 

The Guiding Light 

Pepper Young's Family 
Ha "- 



Stella Unger 

Betty Crocker 

News 

Morton Downey 

Mary Marlin 

Landt Trio and Curley 

My True Story 

Ma Perkins 

Indianapolis Symphony 

Pepper Young's Family 

Ted Malone 

Right to Happiness 

Your Home Front Reporter 

Club Matinee 

Backstage Wife 

Stella Dallas 

News 

Lorenzo Jones 

Men of the Sea 

Perry Como, Songs 

OH the Record 

Sea Hound 

Young Widder Brown 

Madeleine Carroll Reads 

Hop Harrigan 

When a Girl Marries 

Mother and Dad 

Portia Faces Life 

If It's a Question of Music 

Jack Armstrong 

Superman 

Just Plain Bill 

Keep the Home Fires Burning 

Captain Midnight 

Quincy Howe, News 

Ghost Shift 

Today at the Duncans 

Keep Working, Keep Singing 

The World Today 

Lowell Thomas 

I Love a Mystery 

Victor Borge 

Fred Waring's Gang 

Our Secret Weapon 

European News 

Easy Aces 

The Lone Ranger 

Mr. Keen 

H. V. Kaltenborn 

KATE SMITH 

Earl Godwin, News 

Cal Tlnney 

Cities-Service Concert 

Parker Family 

The Thin Man 

Meet Your Navy 

All Time Hit Parade 

Cecil Brown 

Philip Morris Playhouse 

Gang Busters 

Gabriel Heatter 

Waltz Time 

That Brewster Boy 

Spotlight Bands 

Double or Nothing 

People Are Funny 

Dale Carnegie 

Camel Caravan 

John Gunther 

Tommy Riggs, Betty Lou 

Gracie Fields 

Alec Templeton 

Elmer Davis 






53 



SATURDAY 



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Eastern War Time 

8:00 CBS: News of the World 

8:00 Blue: News 

8:00 NBC: News 

8:15 CBS: Music of Today 

' 8:30 CBS: Odd Side of the News 

8:30 NBC: Dick Leibert 

8:30 Blur: United Nations, News Review 



8:45 CBS: Woman's Page of the Air 
8:45 NBC: News 

00 CBS: Press News 

00 B!ue: Breakfast Club 

00 NBC: Everything Goes 

Red Cross Reporter 

Garden Gate 

CBS: Youth on Parade 

Blue: Isabel Manning Hewson 

NBC: NBC STRING QUARTET 

CBS: U. S. Navy Band 

Blue: Hank Lawson's Knights 

NBC: Nellie Revell 

Betty Moore 

CBS: Warren Sweeney, News 
Blue: Game Parade 

Let's Pretend 

CBS: Ration for Fashion 
Blue: Little Blue Playnouse 
NBC: U. S. Coast Guard Band 

CBS: Theater of Today 
Blue: Music by Black 
NBC: News 



7:15 
7:45 



9:15 
9:45 



NBC: Consumer Time 

CBS: Stars Over Hollywood 

Blue: Farm Bureau 

NBC: Mirth and Madness 

CBS: Columbia's Country Journal 

Blue: News 

NBC: Beverly Mahr, vocalist 

NBC: Melodies for Strings 

Blue: Vincent Lopez 

CBS: Adventures in Science 

NBC: All Out for Victory 

CBS: Highways to Health 

NBC: People's War 

Blue: Singo 

CBS: News 

Blue: Musette Music Box 

NBC: Roy Shield and Co. 

CBS: Serenade from Buffalo 



CBS: 
Blue: 



CBS: 

NBC: 



CBS: 
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Spirit of '43 
Tommy Tuckrr 



Of Men and Books 
U. S. Air Force Band 



F.O.B. Detroit 
News 



NBC: Lyrics by Liza 



Blue: 
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Saturday Concert 
Report from North Africa 
Matinee in Rhythm 



CBS: Bobby Tucker's Voices 



CBS: 
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CBS: 

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Calling Pan-America 
Minstrel Melodies 

To be announced 
Joe Rines Orchestra 
Doctors at War 



NBC: Three Suns Trio 



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Blue: 
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News, Alex Drier 
Country Editor 
Horn Kobblcrs 

Gallicchio Orch. 

People's Platform 

Message of Israel 
Religion in the News 

The Three Sisters 
Paul Lavalle Orch. 

Report to the Nation 
Adventures of the Falcon 
To be announced 

Thanks to the Yanks 
Danny Thomas 
Ellery Queen 

Crummit and Sanderson 
Roy Porter, News 
Abie's Irish Rose 

Boston Pops Orchestra 

Hobby Lobby 

Truth or Consequences 



55 CBS: Eric Sevareid 



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Blue 
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CBS 
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YOUR HIT PARADE 
National Barn Dance 

Edward Tomlinson 
Can You Top This 
Spotlight Band 

Saturday Night Serenade 

Gunther or Vandercook 
Bill Stern Sports Newsreel 

Talley Time 

Blue Ribbon Town 

Eileen Farrell 

Betty Rann 

Ned Calmer, News 

Major George Fielding Eliot 



Ginny Simms realty knows how to can those fruits and vegetables 
you see on the cover, for she owns her own farm in California. 




AMERICAS SIMM SWEETHEART 




'T'HE beautiful blue-eyed, dark-haired 
*- girl you see on our cover this month 
is Virginia Simms. Of course, you 
know her as Ginny and thousands of 
soldiers and sailors all over the world 
write her letters, listen to her Philip 
Morris program every Tuesday night 
on NBC and love the way she sings 
their favorite songs and talks to them 
in a sweet, simple, down-to-earth voice. 
Ginny is no stranger to the ways and 
means of canning those fruits and vege- 
tables you see before her on the cover. 
Born in a little farming town near 
San Antonio, Texas, and raised in an 
even smaller town in the rich farming 
valley near Fresno, California, she 
knows as much about raising and caring 
for food as she does about music. Today, 
when Ginny Simms is not in a radio 
studio, she is out on her own forty-acre 
farm, where she helps raise alfalfa and 
citrus fruits and vegetables. She is the 
owner of more than a thousand chickens 
and nineteen cows. 

Asked to pick an all-American girl, 
you couldn't make a better choice than 
Ginny Simms. There is nothing flashy 
or sensational about her, or the life she 
has lived. Like most young girls in the 
small town of Fowler, California, she 
was given piano lessons. She sang while 
she practiced and her thin, soprano 
voice developed over the years to the 
rich contralto voice you hear today. 

At seventeen, Ginny entered the 
Fresno State College. She planned to 
specialize in music and some day teach 
it. With two other musically inclined 
girls, Ginny formed a trio known as 
the "Triad In Blue." They used all of 



their spare time singing at sorority and 
fraternity dances and for the small 
clubs in town that would hire them. 
During summer vacation, the trio went 
to Los Angeles and sang at a well 
known beach club. It was shortly after 
that, that Ginny Simms met Kay Kyser. 
Kay couldn't afford to hire a singer 
then, but he talked his manager into 
placing Ginny in a trio with Guy Lom- 
bardo's band. Ginny sang with the 
girl-Lombardo trio while Guy was in 
the west, then joined Tom Gerun's 
band. That was in January, 1935. For 
two long years, she toured all over the 
country singing in bands, working hard, 
her voice improving every day. In 1937, 
she was singing in the French Casino 
in Chicago. A successful Kay Kyser, 
playing at the Blackhawk Cafe near by, 
would run over during his intermission 
to listen to Virginia Simms. 

KAY could afford to hire her then, and 
did. Her name was still Virginia, 
but he began calling her Ginny and it 
has been Ginny ever since. She rose 
to fame with Kay's band, and then went 
on alone to become what she is today, 
one of America's singing sweethearts. 
Ginny is pretty much the same, easy 
going, quiet, lovable girl she was at 
seventeen. Radio people love her be- 
cause she is so unaffected, natural and 
sweet. What Ginny Simms is, inside, 
comes out in her voice. And what she 
is now is a plain, talented American 
girl, doing everything she can to help 
win this war for the decent people of 
the earth whom she knows so well 
and loves so much. 



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^ 




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55 



I'll Love You More Tomorrow 

Continued jrom page 21 






when I'd confided in Sparky about the 
fear that always gnawed at me when 
Jeff was off on a flight, he'd said: Now 
look here, Betsy," and his voice had 
been stern. "You're going to be a fly- 
er's wife and there's one thing youve 
got to learn now. He's going to have 
to leave you often. Every time he 
does, you've got to know he's flying 
home again. Why, do you think I could 
write his name down so calm and easy 
on operations sheet for a flight, if 1 
didn't know it? The guy means a lot 
to me, too, you know." 

"But how can I know it? I cried in 
desperation, fighting down the terror 
that assailed me— the terror that whis- 
pered what if he doesn't come back! 
"Then you can act like you know it. 
You've got to learn to act. Nobody is 
going to do his best flying— or fighting, 
or whatever he's doing — if he thinks 
the girl back home is crying her eyes 
out from fear of what might happen 
to him If Jeff ever found out you were 
afraid, heaven help him. He'd worry 
because you worried. Good as he is, 
he'd be no good any more as a pilot 
and no good as a husband. Some day 
either Jeff himself or his love for you 
would spin in." 

SO I'd tried to learn to act. To hide 
my fear, to make Jeff feel that I 
thought what he was doing was swell- 
while all the time he was gone my 
heart was in my throat. I'd succeeded, 
too Until yesterday. Yesterday when 
he'd said he was making a "secret 
flight. All flights of the Ferry Com- 
mand are secret, as a military neces- 
sity The very fact he'd used that word 
couid mean only one thing— that this 
was terribly important, and terribly 
dangerous. And I hadn't been able to 
bear that knowledge alone, buried deep 
inside me. By my tears I'd let him 
see And I'd sent him away with worry 
on his face and in his heart— worry 
that I was worried. 

And now today, Jeff lay helpless on 
a hospital bed, with a cheerful grin on 
his face— and nothing at all behind it 

Outside in the corridor, I turned and 
grabbed Sparky's arm. "Tell me what 
happened," I demanded. "I ve got to 
know how he crashed." 

For I'd known nothing at all until 
I'd seen Jeff lying there. Early this 
morning there had been only Sparky s 
grimly terse voice over the phone, say- 
ing "Meet me at the hospital as soon 
as you can." And I'd gone, knowing 
instinctively and with icy certainty. 



what had happened. But not how. 

"Everything went wrong, from 
spinner to flippers. He got ice on the 
wings. One engine curdled on him. 
The beam went out. It was just one ot 
those trips— that's all. To make it 
worse, he had somebody with him— 
somebody important— I can't tell you 
who. Jeff made a crash landing in the 
mountains, and nobody could have 
made a better one under the conditions 
But the passenger was hurt, too— not 
as bad as Jeff, but hurt. That s what s 
preying on his mind. ..." 

"Not only that." I was staring at 
the blank corridor wall but I was seeing 
Jeff's face when he left me yesterday. 
"He knew I was worried. Yesterday — 
I couldn't act, Sparky." ,.,,., , 
The big, raw-boned flyer didn t look 
at me. "It wasn't your fault, Betsy. It 
just— happened. . . . Don't cry, honey. 
You and I have got to concentrate on 
rallying around now. Because Jeff s 
going to need all he can get if it turns 
out he's going to be grounded for 

During those pain- wracked weeks of 
treatment, Jeff was braver than Id 
known a man could be. He was always 
cheerful, he bore the torture of his 
body stoically. But the emptiness that 
had been in his eyes that first day 
grew. It was as if something m him 
that none of us could reach had 
shriveled up and died. It was as it his 
soul had sustained a mortal hurt. 

I was there every minute the ottice 
could spare me. Gradually, his body 
improved. The bandages came off. the 
splints were removed. Physically, Jett 
was responding to the treatments. But 
he never left his bed. He couldn t walk. 
He couldn't move his legs. And the 
nurse told me that sometimes in the 
night, he muttered in his sleep. 1 
always said I'd fly 'em, not crack em 
up," he'd say. 

Finally the doctor had a talk with 
me. "It's mental now," he told me 
gravely. "He can walk again and he 
can fly again if we can only make him 
believe it. If he'd once use those legs 
of his of his own free will, I'm sure we 
can cure him. Unless he makes the 
effort, there is nothing more we can 
do." 

"But what is it, doctor? What keeps 
him from it?" I cried. 

"My dear, when you deal with the 
human mind you're dealing with pretty 
uncharted territory," the doctor told 
me "He simply hasn't the incentive. 
You'd think for a man as crazy about 



%y #&* 




&cw rieccc 7c- 

ARTHUR ELMER, glib-tongued master of ceremonies of Natalie 
Purvin Prager's Game Parade, the Blue Networks children s quiz 
program heard every Saturday at I 1 :00 A.M.. EWT. Arthur is a 
whiz when it comes to impersonations, and he knows more than eight 
dialects. He has a rare gift for ad libbing and has had vast ex- 
perience as an emcee. Elmer made a brief but eventful venture 
into the theater when Clifford Odets, the dramatist, was forming 
a perman- nt acting group. Although Elmer talked his way into 
a port the company fell apart before it got under way. He then 
went into radio, appearing on such programs as Forty-Minutes 
in Hollywood, Myrt and Marge, and others. Elmer was born 
in New York City and raised in Brooklyn, which makes a ditterence. 



56 



flying as he is, that would be incentive 
enough. It's his whole life— except for 
you, Miss Rand. Airplanes and you— 
that's all he cares about. But somehow 
his heart's gone out of everything. 
We've done absolutely all we can. You 
two must somehow, between you, try 
to find the incentive that will give him 
the will to walk." 

WE did everything we could think of, 
Sparky and I. We brought him 
books. We devised games. Other flyers 
from the Command came and talked 
shop; they told him how much they 
missed him, how his famous passenger 
on the fateful flight had said he was the 
best pilot he'd ever seen. I talked to 
him about our future— the things we d 
do when we were married, plans for the 
wedding, now, of course, indefinitely 
postponed. 

And nothing worked. 
He was getting more listless every 
day. He listened politely as we chat- 
tered, he read the books, he played 
the silly games, but he was removed 
from it all. The fire was gone from his 
eyes, and his face lost its keenness. 
And when I kissed him, instead of tak- 
ing me in his arms and giving me a 
real hug and a kiss, he received it 
passively, almost humbly. 

"He's lost all his force," I cried in 
despair to Sparky, "that thing that 
made him what he was. When I kiss 
him, it's almost as if he thought I were 
doing him a kindness. He lets me do 
all the planning for the wedding, tor 
everything, as if— as if marrying him 
were a tremendous favor I was doing. 
I can't bear it!" 

"He loves you as much as ever, 
Sparky said quickly. "More maybe 
He talks about you all the time. And 
he worries now that getting married 
wouldn't be fair to you— with him like 
he is. But don't ever think he s not 
still crazy in love with you." 

"But if—" and then I forgot what I 
was going to say. An idea had come to 
me _an idea so drastic, so shattering, 
that it struck like a blow. 

"I think I know the answer, I told 
Sparky. "You said I had to learn to 

ac t well, I'm going to act as nobody 

ever did before!" , 

"What are you going to do? 
I shook my head. "No— it s bettei 
if I don't tell you!" I said. 

He put his hand on my arm. What 
if it doesn't work?" he asked gravely. 
What if it didn't work? But it hao 
to work! It was Jeff's spirit, not his 
body, that kept him helpless It it 
failed— he'd hate me. And I'd hate 
myself. I'd have to go away, never see 
Jeff again. But it couldn't fail. 

It was like playing with dynamite. 
If this didn't work, then not only would 
Jeff stay indefinitely tied to his bed, 
but our love would be killed forever. 
He'd never trust me again, never wan 
me. And who could blame him? But 
we'd tried everything else. It was time 
now for dangerous measures or the 
battle was lost. , 

Several times during the next ten 
days my heart failed me. I felt I couldn j 
go through with it. And then Id re- 
membered what the doctor said, in- 
centive to get up and use his legs. 

I bought a new dress— a close-fitting 

one that outlined the curves ot mi 

figure. And a perky new hat with < 

seductive half-veil that ended jus 

Continued on page 58 



H 



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57 



above my lips. It was — well, it was a 
daring outfit. The kind some girls get 
whistled at when they wear. 

And when Saturday came I dressed 
in it as carefully as I'd ever dressed in 
my life. I was icy calm now. My whole 
future happiness was staked on this 
one throw of the dice — and the dice 
were ready to be thrown. 

Usually on Saturdays, I went to the 
hospital right after lunch so we could 
have the whole long afternoon to- 
gether. Today I was deliberately late 
— an hour late. And when I got to the 
room I paused for a moment, just inside 
the door, so that he would get the full 
effect of my outfit. He did. His eyes 
widened a little as his gaze swept 
over me. 

"Sorry I'm late, darling. But Sparky 
and I went dancing last night, and got 
in so late I slept till noon," I lied. "It 
was fun — dancing again with a tall, 
good-looking soldier boy. More fun 
than I've had in ages." 

JEFF regarded me soberly as I sat 
down in the chair facing him. "I'm 
glad," he said. "It's been pretty dull for 
you lately, I guess, without a beau." 

"I'm going again tonight — with a new 
pilot, one you haven't met yet. Sparky 
introduced him to me last night." 

"That's good," Jeff said. But I saw 
the beginning of hurt bewilderment on 
his face and for a moment I thought I 
couldn't go on. I wanted to rush over 
and cradle him in my arms as one 
would a child. Instead I chattered 
airily on. Oh, I didn't overdo it. I 
didn't make it obvious. But where 
before I had talked with Jeff only of 
himself, and of us, now I talked of the 
good time I'd had, the music, what a 
good dancer the new pilot was, and 
how attractive. Subtly, but definitely, 
I was making Jeff the outsider instead 
of the very center of my life. 

"Well, that's good," he said again. 
And then with an attempt to return to 
our old mood that almost broke my 
heart, he said. "How about a nice kiss 
for an old cripple, honey? You haven't 
greeted me yet." 

I went over to him slowly and sat on 

the edge of the bed. My lips brushed 

his briefly. Then I sat back with a 

little laugh. "Not much like the old 

' days, Jeff. The way you kiss me now 



Continued from page 56 
makes me think our wedding ring ought 
to read 'Less than yesterday, more than 
tomorrow.' " 

This time there was no doubt about 
his hurt bewilderment. His eyes went 
suddenly dark with it. "Don't say that! 
You know it isn't true. You know I'm 
lying here like a helpless invalid." 

"And that reminds me of another 
thing," I went on callously. "What 
about our wedding? We're not going 
to have to have it here, are we?" And 
I looked around the bare hospital room. 

"I thought a wheelchair — I mean, 
they could lift me into it and we could 
have the ceremony here at the hospital 
chapel. I think I could manage that 
all right — " 

"With me standing there, towering 
over you, with a bottle of smelling 
salts instead of a bouquet?" I forced 
the brutal words out, feeling each one 
cut me with the same stinging lash 
that Jeff was feeling. "Not me! I want 
a real ceremony and all the trimmings. 
I want to be carried over the threshold 
into the apartment, too!" 

"Betsy!" Pain edged his voice. "You 
know I can't!" 

"I want to be held in a real man's 
arms again," I rushed on. "Like any 
woman does. I want to be a wife when 
I'm married — not a nurse!" 

He was white to the lips. "Are you 
saying I'm no longer a real man just 
because I'm lying here?" 

I looked at him a moment. Then I 
turned my back and picked up my bag. 
"It doesn't look like it, does it?" I said 
carelessly. 

There was a brief, electric silence. 
I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move. 
Suddenly Jeff's voice rang out, clear 
and forceful like it used to be. "Come 
here! I'll show you a real man's arms — " 

Peering into my small mirror I began 
applying fresh lipstick. No actress on 
the stage ever made a more deliberate 
gesture. "I can't. I've got an early 
date." 

"Betsy! Come — here!" 

"Really, Jeff, don't be unreasonable. 
I've got to go." I started backing to- 
ward the door. "I'll drop in tomor — " 

"I'll show you what you're going to 
do! You — you — " With one violent 
movement he swept the covers back 
and swung his legs toward the side of 
the bed. His face was white with anger. 



He grabbed the bedtable with one hand 
and pulled himself up. His feet were 
almost touching the floor. He leaned 
forward and grasped the foot of the 
bed. 

I stood paralyzed, nearly suffocating, 
for those few seconds that seemed to 
last an hour. One step — if he took one 
step toward me — His feet were on the 
floor. He was standing, half bent for- 
ward. "I'll show you," he said again. 
And then — and then he took it! 

I leaped forward and grabbed him 
in my arms. I pushed him gently back 
toward the bed. "Darling!" I was half 
babbling, half crying. "You did it, you 
did it! You walked of your own free 
will. You used your legs. Oh, darling — " 

He stared up at me. There was dis- 
belief in his eyes, then a sort of dazed 
incredulity, like a man shocked sud- 
denly back into reality, into having to 
believe the impossible. "I — I did it," he 
said slowly. "I — walked. I thought I 
couldn't. But I got so mad — I walked. 
You made me. . . ." 

I ran to the door and jerked it open. 
I cried hysterically to the nurse who 
was passing, "Get the doctor! Get 
everybody! He did it — he walked! Oh, 
he's well. . . ." 

We were married a month later, with 
Jeff standing straight and tall beside 
me, fitter than he'd ever been in his life. 

HE'S flying again, of course. He's still 
the best pilot in the Ferry Command. 
He still makes those lonely, dangerous 
flights and my heart is still wrenched 
when he leaves me and torn with fear 
while he's gone. But he never knows it. 

In a way, it's as if I sent him out on 
those missions, as if by helping make 
him well I'd sent him away from me. 
But I learned a lot during that half 
hour when I acted a part in that hos- 
pital room. Sparky was right. "No 
guy's going to do his best flying — or 
fighting or whatever he's doing — if he 
thinks the girl back home is crying her 
eyes out for fear of what might happen 
to him." We wives and mothers and 
sweethearts have to learn to act — all of 
us. And not just for a moment, but all 
the time. Because it's part of the vic- 
tory, just like the fighting and the 
flying is. 

We have to act. We have to learn to 
smile when we kiss them goodbye. 



58 



spoke aloud, and I wasn't swearing 
— forgive me — " 

I knew then that Sally loved me. 
She loved me, and her love had in no 
way been like Carolyn's feeling for 
me. I'd been first a convenience to 
Carolyn, and then when I joined the 
Army, I'd perhaps taken on enough 
of a romantic aspect to let her feel 
sentimental about me to the point 
of accepting my ring. And it was Sally, 
who had loved me, since childhood, 
as those mementoes proved, devotedly, 
unselfishly, never asking anything for 
herself, never hoping, who had been 
as dear to me as a sister — it was Sally 
whom I had treated so brutally that 
morning, of whom I had asked what 
I would have asked of a very different 
sort of woman, had I had the stomach 
for it. 

I picked the letters, the flowers, 
the other souvenirs together, put them 
carefully back where I'd found them, 



A Wedding in June 

Continued from page 43 

retied the string with unsteady fingers. 
All of the raw hurt and bitterness 
which had directed my actions that 
morning was gone; in its place was 
complete humiliation in the face of a 
devotion I did not deserve. 

NOR was I any longer at a loss as 
to what must be done. I had to find 
Sally quickly, before she suffered fur- 
ther from the role I'd forced her to 
play. I had to beg her forgiveness, and 
try to make some amends, if possible. 

I called the agency. They could not 
tell me where Miss Towne and Sally 
would be at the moment, they said, 
but they could give me a list of the 
shops they were to visit at some time 
during the day. I wrote the names 
down feverishly, impatient to be on 
my way. 

I must have been a comic figure — 
an over-large soldier in rough Army 
clothes, blundering into those over- 



grown jewel boxes — the exclusive 
shops, softly lighted, deep carpeted, 
smelling faintly of perfume. I didn't 
feel comic, however; I even backed 
out of the elegant rose and blue salon, 
where Sally'd had her hair waved and 
her nails manicured, without the least 
embarrassment. All I felt was more 
and more desperation as the chase 
seemed fruitless. 

Some of the shopwomen had not 
seen Sally and didn't know when to 
expect her: some of them had waited 
upon her, but could give me no clue 
as to where she would go next. Finally 
one of them, a milliner, offered real 
hope. Miss Towne and Miss Shane had 
been in an hour ago, she said, and she 
believed that they were on their way 
to a gown shop. She named a place 
a few blocks up Fifth Avenue. The 
driver of the cab I'd commandeered 
for the search took one look at me 
Continued on page 60 



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59 



as I left the milliner's, said, "Found 
her, huh?" and went through two red 
lights in his eagerness to deliver me 
at my destination. 

I burst into the shop unceremoni- 
ously, nearly colliding with a startled 
saleswoman. "Miss Shane!" I de- 
manded. "She's supposed to be here 
with Miss Towne — " 

The woman hesitated. "Miss Shane s 
having a fitting—" And then she 
looked at my face and added hastily, 
"But if it's important, I think you 
can see her." 

She led me down a long hall to 
one of many closed doors, tapped once 
lightly, and discreetly withdrew. I 
opened the door. 

AS I remember it now, there were oth- 
ers in the room. A smartly dressed 
middle-aged woman, Miss Towne, who 
sat smoking and looking on with critical 
eyes, a fitter with a tape measure 
around her neck and a pin cushion 
at her waist, who knelt on the floor, 
spreading yards of white satin into a 
train. But at the time I saw only 
Sally— Sally in her wedding dress, a 
mist of veil around her head and 
shoulders, her skin as white as her 
gown, her dark eyes enormous. 

And her face was no longer hurt, 
her eyes not dead-looking as they'd 
been when she'd left me at the hotel. 
They were startled — frightened, al- 
most — as she saw me, but there was 
something else in them — a Madonna 
look, a compassion that stopped my 
breath in my lungs and the words in 
my throat. I could only stare at her, 
while all of the urgent phrases I'd 
prepared to get her out of there and 
away from Miss Towne died unspoken. 
It takes a shock sometimes, to wake 
a man up to what he really is; it takes 
a thrust like that of a surgeon's knife 
to cut what is important in his life 
away from the unimportant, the reality 
from the things he has built in his 
mind. I'd had my thrust of the knife 
that morning; it had hurt, and I had 
been aware of nothing but the pain; 
I'd had a second shock when I'd real- 
ized the lengths to which pain had 
driven me, and through that realiza- 
tion another — the extent of the — of 
the operation. 

A part of me had been cut away — 
a useless part — I understood suddenly, 
and the bigger reasons behind my hurts 
and my disappointments became clear 
when I saw Sally in her wedding dress. 
For it was her wedding dress. It 
had been rightfully hers all of the 
years of her devotion, hers by right 
of all we both were or ever would 
be, rightfully hers all of the time I 



(Continued jrom page 58) 
had been building in my own mind an 
illusion called Carolyn. 

Sally said faintly, "Jim. Oh, Jim, 
I—" and the fitter rocked sharply back 
on her heels. 

"That will be enough," she said. "We 
can take it off now." 

Miss Towne, who had been eyeing me 
curiously and with some concern, rose 
at once and motioned to me. "We'll 
wait for her outside, Private Whitlock." 
I followed her out of the fitting room, 
my mind set at ease and my heart lifted 
by the glance Sally threw me — a look 
of mute understanding, of reassurance. 
We waited in silence. The hall off 
which the fitting rooms opened ran 
at right angles to the foyer in which 
we sat, and presently we saw the fitter 
emerge and disappear into another part 
of the shop. The hands of the small 
black and silver clock on a side table 
moved to the quarter-hour, to the half- 
hour. Miss Towne stood up nervously. 
"Surely she's had time to dress by 
now — " 

I waited while she went back to the 
fitting room, refusing to admit the fear 
that was plaguing me— the fear that 
when I found Sally, it would be too 
late. I put faith in the look of re- 
assurance she'd sent me. 

In a few minutes Miss Towne came 
back, running. "Private Whitlock! 
She's gone!" I sent one of the girls 
out the back way to look for her — " 
"Gone!" I rushed past her, back to 
the fitting room. It was empty, only 
the white dress and the veil, hung 
carefully on hangers, left as evidence 
that she had been there at all. At 
the end of the hall was a French win- 
dow giving out on a court, and across 
the court the back door of a restaurant. 
The shopgirl dispatched by Miss Towne 
came out of the restaurant, hurried 
across the court toward me. "She went 
this way, all right. The restaurant 
people saw her. She caught a cab out 
in front." 

Miss Towne was at my elbow. 
"Private Whitlock — " her voice was 
sharp, "can you tell me what's wrong? 
I thought she seemed unusually quiet, 
even for a shy person — " 

I don't remember what I told her. I 
muttered something inane about Sally's 
being excited and probably over tired 
by the trip, and I got her to go back 
to the hotel to do all she could to 
locate Sally from there. 

I did not want to go back to the 
hotel myself, for I knew almost posi- 
tively that Sally would not go near it. 
She had run away deliberately, and 
she knew that the hotel would be the 
first place we would look. 

The search I'd made for her through 





the succession of shops had been a 
game compared to the next few hours. 
I tried the railroad stations first- 
Pennsylvania, where she'd got off the 
train in the morning, then Grand Cen- 
tral, then the 125th Street Station. 
None of them had seen a girl of Sally's 
description turning in a return ticket, 
or buying a ticket to Richmond, Vir- 
ginia. I called them repeatedly at in- 
tervals all afternoon. 

I made guesses as to what places — 
what hotels or restaurants — Sally 
might have noticed particularly on 
her ride from the station that morn- 
ing and on her tour with Miss Towne, 
and I tried them all, making quick but 
thorough inquiries at each one. I tried 
the library, on the premise that it was 
a good place to rest and to think 
through a problem. I kept in touch 
with Miss Towne at the hotel, with 
increasing reluctance. Each time I 
called, Miss Towne was a little more 
frantic, a little more demanding as to 
my guesses for Sally's reasons for leav- 
ing. Miss Towne and I had only one 
thing in common — we were equally 
reluctant to go to the Missing Per- 
sons' Bureau or to any other official 
source unless it became absolutely 
necessary. 

It was dusk when not the search, 
but my own morale, gave way. The 
nagging voice had followed me all 
afternoon, repeating "Too late," and 
I had ignored it, refusing to admit that 
it might be. I had to face it finally, 
had to examine the worst of the possi- 
bilities it offered. 

I walked on into the park, grateful 
for the empty paths, grateful for the 
deepening shadows which shut me in, 
away from the city of people. I could 
relax now, meet the fear that tor- 
mented me without being afraid of its 
showing in my face and being reflected 
in the faces of others. 



60 



GEORGE LOWTHER— actor-narrator-director of Mutual's Super- 
man, heard dally at 5:30 P.M. EWT. George was the first page boy 
ever hired by NBC, way back in 1927. Then he worked his way into 
the Script Department and from there became director of Radio 
Recording. But he also free-lanced, acting, writing for Dick Tracy, 
Terry and the Pirates and other network shows. Lowther resigned 
from NBC to assume his duties with Superman, Inc. Did we forget 
to tell you he also writes Superman and that twice this month when 
three actors failed to show up for the broadcast Lowther narrated, 
directed and acted the roles himselfl He lives in Dobbs Ferry, N. Y. 
Has a wife, baby and a great Dane. Another little Lowther is 
en route. Radio circles call him "The Orson Welles of Juveniles." 



H 



[ABIT led me toward the merry-go- 
round. Habit, and an animal instinct 
to retire to cave-like recesses and wait 
until fear passed. The merry-go-round 
stood in a glen-like semi-circle, 
hemmed in on three sides by trees 
and shrubs, approached obliquely by 
walks on the open side — a good place 
to hide, even from myself. It was dark 
and very quiet as I passed the ticket 
booth and sat down on one of the 
benches. It was completely different 
from what it had been when I'd seen it 
before — children might never have 
played there; a calliope might never 
have tooted its tinny tune — just as I 
was completely different. 

Sally. I had known another loss that 
day, the loss of Carolyn. I had known 
remorse when I'd opened the lid of 
Sally's suit case. But the loss of Car- 
olyn, and the remorse I'd felt in the 
hotel room would be small things com- 
pared to what I'd have to face if — 

Sally would be found; she must be 
found. She was a strong girl, full of 
life and the love of living, and she was 
contemptuous of any weakness, of 
those who gave up. Yet she had been 
under an unusual strain — Carolyn's 
marriage, the trip, and finally, my bru- 
tality, and it was not like her to 
knowingly worry anyone. She must 
know that by the next day we would 
call her parents. . . . The Madonna- 
like look, the look of mysterious re- 
assurance haunted me. 

I jerked myself away from the 
thought. I was a fool — I had better 
pull myself together, get out of the 
Continued on page 62 




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Continued 
park and back to the business of a 
systematic search. I rose, and heard a 
sound in the shadows, a soft little 
sound, a muffled, continuous weeping. 
And I made out a figure in the dark 
shelter of the opposite bank, the figure 
of a girl, crying. 

I crossed quickly to her, knowing 
somehow, not daring to believe what I 
knew, not daring to believe in miracles. 
I spoke to her as I drew near, softly, 
so as not to startle her too much. 

"Sally—" 

The weeping stopped, and she raised 
her head. After a long moment the 
answer came, tentatively — "Jim?" 

I sat down beside her, not touching 
her, so shaken with relief, with grati- 
tude, that for a long while I could not 
speak. At last I said stupidly, "Sally — 
what are you doing here?" 

Her head snapped back; her face was 
all eyes and quivering mouth. "Oh, 
Jim, I'm not brave! I tried to go away 
— I tried to go home! I couldn't — " 

I dared to touch her then. My hand 
closed over hers, gently. "I know, 
Sally. I think I knew when I asked 
you. If you'll — " I stumbled miserably 
— "Can you forgive me for — " 

She stared at me, apprehensively 
and then, suddenly electrified, she said, 
"Oh, Jim, I knew you hadn't meant it, 
I knew you were just striking out 
blindly, any old way." 

"Then why did you run away?" My 
voice was hoarse, frayed. I'd had to 



from page 60 

drag it up out of depths of combined 
shame and wonder — shame for myself, 
wonder that there could be a person 
like her. 

She shrank back, afraid again. My 
fingers tightened over hers as she tried 
to pull away. "Because when I saw 
you in the gown shop, I knew you'd 
come to send me home. And Jim, I 
couldn't go — not right away. I had to 
stay awhile, to be in the same city 
with you, to see some of the things like 
this — " she nodded toward the merry- 
go-round, " — you'd mentioned in your 
letters to Carolyn. I had to stay for a 
little while, even if you didn't want to 
see me — " 

"If I didn't want to see you! Oh, 
Sally — " I told her then, or tried to 
tell her — tried to make it coherent — 
of everything that had happened to me 
during the day. I told her about find- 
ing the things in her suitcase, about 
the awakening I'd experienced when 
I saw her in her wedding dress, about 
the torture I'd gone through, and my 
wild fears for her. She listened, dis- 
believing at first, then slowly believ- 
ing, happiness spreading through her, 
shining like light in that dark glen. 

"Jim," she whispered when I'd fin- 
ished, "Jim, are you sure?" 

"Sure — Sally, does a blind man 
know when he can see?" My arms 
closed around her then, and my lips 
found hers, telling her all that I 
couldn't put into words. 



Must We Say Goodbye? 

Continued from page 37 



"Yes. ... Oh. Well, what time is it? 
. . . Sure, if you want to. . . . All right, 
get your hat and coat on. Goodbye." 

As he hung up I thought I saw a 
slight flexing of the muscles around his 
wide, sensitive mouth, but before I 
could be sure, it was gone. "Bernice 
wants to go to a movie," he remarked. 
"So I'll run along." 

Such little things, they were, that 
revealed Bernice Edwards to me. Each 
unimportant alone, but adding up to a 
woman tortured by herself. 

A desire to have everything in her 
house shining and clean and just so . . . 
a loneliness during the day while her 
husband was at work ... a sudden de- 
cision to attend a movie, and a tele- 
phone call when my house was only a 
few steps away. And later, as one day 
took its place beside another in the 
orderly procession of time, other 
things. . . . 

ly/fARGIE, saying wonderingly, "Aunt 
■*-"-*• Bernice is always sewing, Mummy. 
She says she likes to sew. You don't, 
do you?" 

"I would, if I had the time." Ridicu- 
lous, that little pang of envy I felt at 
the picture of an ordered life, a man- 
and-woman life, with leisure in it to 
take fabrics and build out of them 
something lovely. Ridiculous, because 
I'd always hated sewing, and no two 
ways about it. 

"Well, she has a whole big box full 
of buttons and another full of little 
pieces of silk and stuff, and she lets me 
play with them but — " Margie was ag- 
grieved — "she won't let me have any 
of them so I could sew some nice 
dresses for Shirley." 

"Aunt Bernice needs all those things 
herself," I told her. "And you mustn't 
bother her when she's sewing, either." 

"Oh, I don't." But the little face was 



downcast. I said impulsively: 

"You like Aunt Bernice, don't you, 
dear? I mean — you must tell me if 
you don't like going over there." 

Margie seemed to ponder. Oh, five- 
year-olds can be so incredibly wise! 
She knew, little Margie, that I was 
hoping for her to like Bernice and be 
happy there; she didn't want to disap- 
point me. And yet — 

She compromised. "She's all right," 
she said. "She gets cross sometimes, 
but I like her. I like Uncle Blaine 
better, though." 

Yes, Margie, I said wordlessly. Yes, 
so do I. 

It was not right that all my gratitude 
should go to Blaine. It was not Blaine 
who had to undergo the day-long 
nervous strain of having an energetic 
youngster around the house; it was not 
Blaine who carried the responsibility. 
Still, in my thoughts, it was always 
Blaine I thanked, not Bernice. 

Bernice herself would not accept 
spoken thanks. "Really, Margie's no 
trouble at all," she said once, almost 
sharply. "We understand each other 
perfectly, of course. Margie realizes 
that there are things she can't do in my 
house — so she doesn't do them. We get 
along beautifully." 

It was as if caring for Margie was a 
challenge. She would not admit, to 
herself or anyone else, that it was diffi- 
cult in any way — although there must 
have been times when she would have 
given anything to be free of the bargain 
she'd made. 

I didn't see a great deal of her, and 
not much more of Blaine. I took 
Margie with me on my way up the 
block to the bus-stop, but I was always 
too rushed to do more than call a good- 
morning, and at night Bernice always 
sent Margie home alone, a few minutes 
before six, so there was no need for me 



to stop by for her. Now and then, on 
Saturday afternoons or Sundays, Blaine 
would come over on one errand or an- 
other; he and Bernice were going into 
town to do some shopping, did I want 
anything? — or would I like him to turn 
over the little scrap of backyard I 
possessed, with a view to a Victory gar- 
den? I accepted the latter offer, and 
he put in an hour with a fork and rake, 
gravely discussing the merits of dif- 
ferent crops as he worked. I remember 
we settled on three tomato plants, two 
rows of carrots, one of beets and one 
of radishes, as being the simplest and 
most suitable. 

And afterwards— not very often, nor 
for long at a time — he came to see how 
things were growing, to pull a few 
weeds or hoe the grainy earth. 

No, not many meetings. And yet, 
with Blaine, it didn't seem to matter 
that I saw him so seldom. Minutes 
spent with him were a, world in them- 
selves, complete and filled with con- 
tent; and when, for days at a time, I did 
not see him I still had a sense of his 
presence. As you might feel the pres- 
ence of the sun behind thick clouds. 

¥ LOVED him. I knew that— had 
■* known it almost from the first. I 
loved him for his kindness, for the in- 
nocent gayety of the small-boy spirit 
that lurked deep in those gray, heavily- 
lashed eyes, for the incompleteness I 
was sure was in his marriage, for — oh, 
even for the loose-limbed way he 
walked and the length of his arms. 

It was all right for me to love him, 
and I didn't fight against it. As long as 
he didn't know, I was harming no one. 

But sometimes secrets have a way of 
shaping events for their own purposes, 
until suddenly they emerge into the 
light of day, secrets no longer. 

Imperceptibly, spring crept toward 
its close, and Blaine talked of a picnic 
for all of us, for Margie and Bernice 
and himself and me — but mostly, I sus- 
pected, for Margie and himself. He had 
been saving up his gasoline coupons 
until he had enough for a whole tank- 
ful. We'd start out early on a Sunday 
morning and go to a place on Galena 
Mountain — a wonderful place, he said 
enthusiastically, with a stream for fish- 
ing and a flat clearing surrounded by 
pines, open to the sun and sheltered 
from the wind. 

" — And with plenty of mosquitoes 
and ants and wasps," Bernice said 
acidly. "Also a family party of factory 
workers drinking beer." 

Blaine's face fell for an instant. Then 
he brightened. "It's too early in the 
season for bugs," he promised, "and 
almost nobody knows about this place." 

I thought Bernice was going to ob- 
ject again, and more strongly, but she 
surprised me. Her eyes narrowed, then 
she smiled and shrugged. "Oh, well," 
she said, "I suppose we'll have to let 
him get it out of his system." 

"Next Sunday!" Blaine cried. And 
Margie set up a whoop of glee. 

Impatiently, Bernice brushed aside 
my offer to prepare part at least of the 
picnic lunch. "I'll do it — I've plenty of 
time," she said, managing to give the 
words an intonation that made them 
mean exactly the opposite. I smothered 
a wave of irritation. This picnic was 
such a small thing, and Blaine could 
have found so much pleasure in it. Why 
couldn't she be gracious? 

However, the preparations for the 
picnic went ahead, although Margie 
must have been the only one who 
looked forward to it with unmixed an- 
ticipation. She, of course, was wildly 
excited, and on Sunday morning she 




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was awake at six. By eight, when the 
Edwardses were due, we had been 
ready for fifteen minutes, and Margie 
was keeping a vigil on the front porch. 
Eight-fifteen, and I had explained for 
the tenth time that they had so much 
to do, getting ready . . . 

Blaine's two-door sedan stopped at 
the curb. Bernice was not with him. 

"Bernice has a headache," he said 
shortly. "She can't go." 

Conscious of only two things- 
Margie's stricken face and my own 
inner voice saying, "I knew something 
like this would happen! I knew she'd 
spoil it if she could!" I exclaimed, "Oh, 
I'm so sorry! Then — " 

"All ready, sweetheart?" he said to 
Margie. 

"Oh, we can't — " The words were 
forced out of me. 

He didn't look at me. "Of course we 
can. I'm not going to disappoint 
Margie. And Bernice will be perfectly 
all right." 

TXE led the way to the car, and we 
■*--■- drove away in a strained silence, 
the three of us all in the front seat, 
Blaine's hands tight on the wheel, his 
profile when I glanced at it out of the 
corner of my eye set and grim. 

I knew what had happened, as well 
as if he'd told me. All along, Bernice 
had been determined not to let him 
have his outing. She had been unable 
to discourage the idea at the outset, so 
she had developed a headache at the 
last minute. It hadn't worked. Blaine 
did not believe in the headache, and 
neither did I. But if he had believed, 
I would have pretended to. 

They must have quarreled. 

"We couldn't have picked a better 
day," Blaine said carefully, after a 
while. "It's just warm enough." 

"It's lovely," I answered, and again 
we were silent. But slowly, as he drove 
the car through the diminished traffic 
of a war-time Sunday, the set lines of 
his face relaxed, and the atmosphere in 
the car became easier. It was as if, in 
separating ourselves from " Bernice in 
distance, we were at the same time 
separating ourselves from her in 
thought. And, out in the country, hav- 
ing turned off the main highway to the 
one that led to Galena, I heard Blaine 
sigh softly. It was a sigh of content- 
ment — of happiness for the sun, the 
breeze pregnant with growing things, 
the blue line of the mountain ahead of 
us. For, perhaps, my companionship. 

Not once, all day, did either of us 
mention Bernice again. It was a day 
of innocence and sunlight. We might, 
Blaine and I, have been no more than 
Margie's age. We found the spot Blaine 
had promised, and it was just as he'd 
said, with neither bugs nor people to 
bother us. We ate the lunch Bernice 
had prepared, and Blaine gave Margie 
a fishing lesson, and we strolled out of 
the clearing into the woods, and late 
in the afternoon Blaine and Margie 
dozed in the sun, while I sat near, 
happy, just being together. 

It was dark when we got home — and 
I noticed, as we passed it, that there 
was no light in Blaine's house. He 
stopped in front of my place, and picked 
up Margie, who was fast asleep. 

"She's had such a good time," I whis- 
pered. "Thank you for taking us." 

Over Margie's head his eyes met 
mine. "Thank you for coming," he said. 
"This day — being with you — did me 
good." 

That was all. But it was enough to 
crown my day, already perfect, with 
beauty. 

I did not see him again until Thurs- 



day. I saw Bernice, the next morning 
and every morning, but only for a 
minute each time. To my inquiry about 
her headache she answered only that 
it was better, thanks, in a tone indicat- 
ing she didn't intend to discuss it. 

fjNEASILY, I wondered if I should 
^ take Margie away from her. I had 
no way of knowing what the atmosphere 
was in that house, all day long. Casu- 
ally, I tried to question Margie. "Did 
you have a good time today? What did 
Aunt Bernice give you for lunch?" 

"Bread pudding." By her own ac- 
count, Margie's meals always consisted 
exclusively of dessert. 

"What did you do all day?" 

"Played in the yard with Lois." That 
would be Lois Baker; the Bakers lived 
next to the Edwards'. And naturally, 
in this weather, she'd be outdoors most 
of the time. That was good; she'd be 
much less trouble to Bernice and still 
she'd be easy to watch. 

On Thursday, though, the weather 
broke. In a few hours a wind came 
up, bringing with it heavy clouds from 
the north. We were in for one of those 
late-spring cold snaps that always 
seemed to make the very flowers shiver. 
When I came home that evening, a 
sniffling, subdued Margie greeted me. 
But when I asked her if anything was 
wrong, she shook her head, so I blamed 
her disposition on the weather and a 
possible beginning of a cold, and put 
her to bed early. I was debating calling 
Bernice — but what, exactly, could I say 
if I did call her? — when the doorbell 
rang once, sharply. 

It was Blaine. Even as I opened the 
door, before he said hello, I knew that 
something urgent and painful had 
brought him here. There was that look 



about the tightly- stretched skin over 
his jaw. All his first casual words- 
how was I? and had Margie gone to 
bed?— could do nothing to shake that 
knowledge. 

Into the first awkward silence 1 
dropped my question — not to hurry 
him, but to help him if I could. 

"What is it, Blaine?" 

He looked at me. "I don't know how 
to say it. I thought I'd tell you Bernice 
was ill, the doctor said she needed a 
rest. But you'd know I was lying. So 
there's no way of saving my pride. . . . 
You mustn't let Margie come over to 
our place any more. It isn't — it can't 
be — good for her." 

"Oh." It was hardly a word, hardly 
even a sound, and he went on. 

"Lord knows I hate to tell you this. 
I've put it off already, two or three 
days — I can't put it off any longer. 
But maybe you know it already, or at 
least everything but the details, and I 
won't tell you many of them. Bernice 
and I — we're not happy together. 
Happy!" He laughed shortly, harshly, 
at the word. "That's a crazy way of 
putting it. I shouldn't even use the 
word. . . . We could have been happy — 
we were in love when we were mar- 
ried, six years ago. But Bernice — what- 
ever belongs to her, has to belong to 
her completely. No half measures. 
Sometimes I've felt as if her fingers 
were digging into my heart, trying to 
hold it. . . . That sounds fanciful. It's 
not. It's the truth." 

"Yes, I know," I said. "I know it's 
true. I . . . felt it. . . ." 

"She's been jealous before — not al- 
ways of women. It's not just a sexual 
jealousy. I could understand that. I 
don't think she even wants me to have 
a friend. I should have known better 



than to introduce you to her. But she'd 
promised— and I thought, she dislikes 
so many of the women around here, 
perhaps you could be her friend more 
than mine. And Margie could have 
been an interest for her. It could have 
worked out that way." He said it 
almost pleadingly, as if begging for 
my approval, my forgiveness. 

I gave him both, freely. "Oh, yes, it 
could have! It was worth trying, 
Blaine!" 

"Yes— but it didn't. Sunday— the 
picnic— brought things to a head. Ever 
since, she's been — oh, well, there's no 
reason I should tell you what we've 
said to each other. But you see, don't 
you, it's impossible to go on with this 
arrangement about Margie?" 

I NODDED, sorrow for him running 

through me like the blood through 
my veins. "I see that — yes. I'll get a 
woman to come in ... or something." 

In spite of my efforts to keep it 
steady, my voice trembled. His rang 
out more strongly. "Knowing you has 
— has been very wonderful." 

It was goodbye. We both knew it. 
Goodbye, on his part, to a friendship — 
on my part, to a love. We might see 
each other on the street or the bus, 
might nod and smile, but that would 
be all. I felt tears rising in my eyes 
and stood up. Mechanically, I said, "I 
suppose it will be all right to leave 
things as they are for tomorrow. Then 
I'll find someone over the weekend." 

"Oh, of course," he agreed quickly. 
"And if you could think of some way 
to make taking Margie away seem en- 
tirely natural, I'd — appreciate it." 

"Yes — I'll think of some way." The 
tears were insistent. I turned my head 
away, hastily. But not hastily enough. 




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66 



"Mary — dearest!" he muttered. 
"Don't cry — don't!" 

I was in his arms. He was crushing 
the breath — the very life — out of me. 
Oh, take that life, take it! Take it 
through your lips, your arms. 

He let me go — stood back, his face 
white. 

"I never meant to do that," he said. 
"I didn't want you to know." 

"But I'm glad to know," I whispered. 

"No," he said painfully. "Because it 
can't mean anything. If there were 
any hope ... if I dared divorce Bernice. 
But I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what she 
might do to herself. Six years ago, 
when we were married, I promised. 
It's a promise I have to keep." 

So it was goodbye to love for him, 
too. A promise he had to keep. Yes, 
when Blaine made a promise he would 
keep it — no matter how much it hurt. 

My face was in my hands. I didn't 
see him leave. I only heard the door 
close softly behind him. 

BUT then, I saw, I couldn't even stay 
here, in this house, this neighbor- 
hood. For myself, I could have stood 
it — being so near to him, having to hide 
what I felt. For myself — yes, but I 
couldn't ask him to undergo that tor- 
ture too, in addition to the rest. 

When that was decided, there was 
nothing for the rest of the night — 
nothing but the memory of Blaine's 
kiss, snatched so roughly away from 
my lips before they had had time 
really to taste it. 

In the morning I left Margie at Ber- 
nice's back door, without even making 
a token effort to see Bernice. I would 
have given anything to have some- 
where else for Margie to go, but if I 
were to move soon I had to go down- 
town. As it was, I would probably 
take most of the day off from work. 

Ten hours later, I came home, 
drenched by the rain and aching with 
defeat. There was nowhere, simply 
nowhere, to live. I had looked at 
houses and apartments, and the more 
I saw the more I was appalled at the 
prices that were charged for squalor. 

I went into the house, to find Margie 
in the living room, sobbing as if her 
heart would break. Her face was 
streaked and dirty with tears; her hair 
and her clothes were soaking wet. At 
the sound of my step she threw herself 
into my arms, clinging to me like a 
refuge, gasping out broken sentences 
and disconnected words, so that it was 
minutes before I learned what the 
matter was. When I did, I sank back 
on my heels, filled with a cold horror 
that soon gave way to rage. 

How could she have done this to a 
little girl! It was sheer, wanton 
cruelty — this wreaking of her spite 
against me on whatever was dearest to 
me, and no matter if that victim was 
small and trusting and helpless. She 
had struck Margie — her cheek was red 
and swollen in evidence — had screamed 
at her that she was a bad girl, had then 
turned her out of the house. 

But I tried to be fair. It was just 
possible she'd had some reason: "What 
were you doing?" I asked. "You're 
sure you weren't naughty?" 

"No, I wasn't!" I knew when Margie 
was lying to me; this wasn't one of 
those times. "All I did was play with 
a pretty piece of silk — it was blue, 
with pretty gold threads in it — and I 
was putting it around Shirley for a 
coat and she said I couldn't have it 
and then she slapped me. But she's 
let me play with it before!" 

I cuddled her face against mine. 



"Well, never mind," I tried to comfort 
her. "Mummy won't ever send you 
over there again." 

After a minute I stood up, still hold- 
ing her hand. More than .anything, 
I wanted to go up the block and tell 
Bernice Edwards what I thought of 
her. But of course I couldn't. I 
glanced out of the window, at the Ed- 
wards' house, instead. And stood there, 
not breathing. 

A little knot of people stood on 
Blaine's lawn, loooking at the house. 
Even as I watched, a police car drew 
up with a rasp of brakes, and two 
uniformed figures shot out of it, ran 
up the steps. 

I think I told Margie to stay where 
she was and be a good girl; it was in 
my mind, but perhaps it never got any 
farther. I don't really remember — I 
don't remember anything, until I -was 
standing at Blaine's front door. 

He opened the door for me. He 
seemed not even to see me, at first, 
then his face crumpled in relief. "Mary! 
Ah, I'm glad you came." 

"What is it?" I cried. "Blaine, 
what's happened?" 

He shook his head, as if he couldn't 
understand. "Bernice," he muttered. "I 
came home and — " His hand "flung out, 
at something on the brightly polished 
living room floor behind him, at some- 
thing crumpled and sprawled/ at'silken 
skirts and twisted legs and an out- 
stretched arm. 

"I told her," Blaine was saying, as 
if it were a lesson he was repeating 
for the hundredth time, "I always told 
her these floors were too slippery." 

Softly, almost reverently, one of the 
policemen was drawing some kind of 
cover over the still form on the floor. 
The other was approaching us. He gave 
me one quick glance of curiosity, that 
was all. "There's nothing we can do, 
Mr. Edwards," he said. "It must have 
happened at least an hour ago. She 
struck her head on that table-leg when 
she fell." 

I covered my eyes, but I could still 
see it — Bernice, striding into the room, 
quick and careless in her anger after 
turning Margie out, and falling. 

Blaine spoke, dazedly. "I can't 
understand it," he was saying. "She 
must have slipped on^ that piece of 
cloth — and she was always so neat, so 
careful about picking up things." 

1 LOOKED down, knowing what I 
should see. A scrap of silk cloth, of 
blue with gold threads running 
through it, "not more than a foot, square 
— just the size to make a cape for a 
doll. It was :on the floor — tossed down 
and forgotten once it had served its 
purpose of providing an excuse for 
Bernice to vent her anger upon Margie. 
The picture of Bernice lying there 
will stay long in my mind, and longer 
still in Blaine's. But it will fade in 
time, and so will Blaine's recollections 
of her jealousy, her thousand little pet- 
tish unkindnesses, her nagging — all the 
memories of that poor woman who 
was so entangled in the skeins of her 
own neurotic imaginings. They will 
all be forgotten, because I know that 
I can give Blaine something precious 
to replace them — a love as full, as kind, 
as understanding as it is humanly pos- 
sible for me to make it. He will be 
able to remember without bitterness 
the woman who was destroyed at last 
by her own jealousy, because there is 
happiness ahead for the three of us — 
a life of happiness for Blaine and 
Margie and me. Time, and the love we 
share, will do their healing work. 



:♦.. 



% 



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CORKED IN OIL 

To preserve precious steel 
needles, place a small bottle in 
the sewing machine drawer . . . 
put your needles in it . . . and 
add a drop of machine oil. Insert 
the cork, and there will be no 
rusty needles when you come 
to use them. — Household hint 
prize-winner Myrtle Oland on 
Meet Your Neighbor with Alma 
Kitchell, the Blue Network. 

CELLOPHANE COCKTAIL 

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J., IN DEFENSE OF PA 

There are mothers who tell 
the child to "wait until daddy 
£, comes home" when he has mis- 
behaved. To thus use the father 
Q as a threat of punishment is un- 
.* fair to the father . . . but even 
harder on the child. Punishment 
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speaker of The Baby Institute, 
the Blue Network. 



IF THE ROUND ROBIN 
COMES HOME TO ROOST 

Chain letters: Isn't it a stupid 
and foolish waste of time to 
copy a lot of drivel over and 
over ... to spend good money 
for stamps . . . when our Post 
Office Department has all that 
it can do to handle important 
mail? It may be that these chain 
letters are kept in circulation by 
Axis agents who want to con- 
fuse us and make us waste our 
time. But whatever the source, 
don't, I beg of you, let yourself 
be intimidated or coerced into 
"not breaking the chain." Break 
it and break it quickly by 
throwing the chain letter away. 
—Kate Smith Speaks, CBS. 

SOMETHING FOR THE BOYS 
IN BLUE 

The Commander of the sub- 
marine base at New London, 
Connecticut, where we went to 
put on our radio show, did not 
allow any officers and their 
wives to attend either of our 
► broadcasts. The seating capacity 
; was not too big and the Ad- 
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', to the boys . . . that they came 
' first. Need I say more? — Kate 
, Smith Speaks, CBS. 




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SHE OPERATES SHIPS RADIO 



RADIO Officer Adeline Richards 
(Peggy, to her fellow - officers) 
has been serving on an eleven- 
thousand-ton Norwegian cargo boat for 
nearly two years. Back from her 
roughest-ever trip across the Atlantic, 
during which she got concussion, she 
is only waiting for her ship to refit be- 
fore she will be off again. 

Twenty-five years old, a five-foot 
brunette, Peggy is Australian-born of 
seafaring folk. She came to Britain for 
her first visit when she was four, then, 
arriving again at the age of nineteen, 
took a post as secretary to a cinema 
manager. 

But the call of the sea was too much 
for her, and early in the war she began 
to make plans to get a berth afloat. 
"My mother was a nurse on board ship, 
both in the last war and in this one," 
Peggy says. But nursing did not appeal 
to Peggy so she thought up a better idea. 

Although she knew that the British 
Merchant Service would not accept 



By Mary Bradley 

women as radio officers, she decided to 
take the training. Four months later, 
armed with her ticket, she tried first 
British shipping officers and then Nor- 
wegian. They were not interested. But 
she left her name and address, and sure 
enough in May 1941 a Norwegian line 
gave her her chance on a trip to 
Canada. 

At first a number of the crew refused 
to sail with a woman on board; they 
reckoned that she would be a liability 
in an emergency. But the Captain told 
them they must sail or he would re- 
place them. So they sailed. 

Now Radio Officer Richards shares 
watches with a man radio officer, taking 
down news bulletins and warnings of 
Axis shipping, straight from the ear- 
phones to her typewriter. Messages are 
often received in code, but ship trans- 
missions are made only in extreme 
emergency. Between-whiles Peggy 



does clerical work for the Captain — 
paysheets, crew-lists, doctors' reports 
and so on. She also does odd mending 
jobs for the eleven officers. 

First thing she does when she sails 
up the Hudson, is to go ashore and 
order a thick steak. 

Peggy loves New York and its lights. 
After the war she'd like to settle down 
in Philadelphia. 

Most of her outfit comes from the 
Women's Royal Naval Service. On the 
navy suit, however, she wears Mer- 
chant Service buttons, and she has a 
navy forage cap with the gold and vel- 
vet badge of the Merchant Service. 
Her shoulder flash labels her "AUS- 
TRALIA." At sea she wears slacks, 
sea-boots and oilskins, and sleeps in 
her clothes till she reaches port again. 

Peggy knows what it is to brave 
air attacks, torpedoes, E-boats, mine- 
fields and gales. But the call of the sea 
is stronger than ever. She will soon 
be back. 








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My Heart Remembers 

Continued jrom page 28 

river. For a while we wandered aim- 
lessly along the path that bordered the 
high bank, and at last we found a spot 
on the bluff directly in the path the 
moon made across the water, and there 
we sat down on the grass. And there 
I learned what was wrong with Steven, 
what had dulled the life of his eyes, 
what had sent laughter away from his 
mouth, what had changed his joy of 
living into hate of living. 

Steven was on convalescent leave, I 
found out. He didn't tell me much that 
first night on the riverbank — not as 
much as he needed to, to cleanse his 
mind and his heart of some of the dark 
places there — but I knew just the same 
that it was far more than he had told 
anyone else. Just the bare, grim out- 
line of a climb up a fortified hill in 
Tunisia which Rommel's men had 
seeded thick with mines to blow up in 
our soldiers' faces as they climbed: a 
suicide task that didn't turn out to be 
quite suicide for Steven, but was worse, 
almost, than if it had, leaving him with 
memories that he could not shake off, 
injuries that took long months to heal 
— and injuries of another kind, leaving 
raw, sore spots in his mind and his soul 
that couldn't be healed so quickly. 

CO he had come home — to news that 
^ his older brother, whom he had 
hero-worshipped all his life, had been 
killed in action in the Pacific. To news 
that his mother — the last of his family 
— had died a month before. "None of 
my folks are left," he finished, in that 
dull, tired voice of his. 

My hand fumbled for his and held it 
hard. I couldn't find anything to say, 
but I guess that the tears in my eyes 
told him that I'd be his folks for as 
long as he was here. 

That was the way it started. And 
things that start, nowadays, don't move 
slowly. I spent all my spare time with 
Steven, after that — knowing that I 
must, at first, and afterward because I 
wanted to. Especially after the second 
night, when we walked along the river 
again, and I asked him, "How long be- 
fore you must go back, Steve?" 

He stopped then, and swung around 
to face me, looking seriously down at 
me in the half-dark of the moonlight. 

"I'm not going back." 

He was silent, and as he turned a 
little, and the moonlight struck his face, 
I saw that he looked dazed, uncertain. 
And I knew then that this was the first 
time he had put that into words — that 
he had known it all along, and tried to 
hide it even from himself. Now it was 
spoken — out in the open, to be ex- 
amined, to be talked about. "I'm not 
going back!" 

I knew better than to talk about it 
then. Gently, I led the conversation 
away, around to other things. Now was 
the time to talk about the weather, 
about the music we heard, about any- 
thing and everything except the war. 
Because I was sure that if I tried, if 
I gave my whole self to it, I could help 
Steven find his way out of the maze of 
fear and desperation in which he had 
lost himself. 

I didn't know that he would fall in 
love with me. I thought that I would 
help him to find his way of life again, 
not be his way of life. But that's what 
happened. And when he said to me, 
one night less than a week after we 
had met, "You're all I've got to live 
for, Susan!" what could I say? What 




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could I say, except, "I'm glad, Steve." 
Being with Steven was good for me, 
too. Because helping him fight his way 
out of his trouble was a full-time job, 
and it kept my mind off myself. I just 
didn't have time, during that first week, 
to sit and dream of Dick. With my job, 
and my service at the Canteen, and 
going out with Steven somewhere 
afterwards, I was so tired by the time 
I got to bed that I was grateful to drop 
into profound sleep, instead of lying 
awake to be sorry for myself as I used 
to do before Steven came along. 

IT was a hard job, and a challenging 
•* one, to coax Steven's mind out of the 
protective wall of "I will not" which he 
had built around it. It was slow work, 
and it took careful planning so that I 
could be sure I never said or did the 
wrong thing. But I managed it. I man- 
aged it so that one night, about a month 
after I had met him, I could feel free to 
ask once again, "When are you sched- 
uled to go back on duty?" And when 
he told me, as he had a month before, 
"I am not going back," I was so sure of 
myself that I wasn't afraid to reply, 
"Nonsense, of course you're going 
back, Steven!" 

He shook his head, but I knew that 
I had won, all the same. There was 
reason in his eyes now, instead of dull- 
ness, and fear no longer lurked there. 

"It wouldn't be so bad," he said, 
slowly, "if I had something to come 
back to, if every fighting day meant 
one day nearer coming home to some- 
thing worth coming home for." 

I leaned back against the bole of our 
favorite big tree — we were on the river- 
bank once more — and I said, lightly, 
"But not having someone to come back 
to ought to make it easier to leave, 
Steven." 

He moved closer to me, then, and 
caught my hand in his in the gesture 
that was now so familiar. "It's you 
that makes it hard to leave, now, 
Susan," he told me. He sat very still a 
moment, holding tightly to my hand, 
and then he began to talk, to pour 
words out at me as if he were thinking 
aloud, as if he were trying to straighten 
out his own tangled, troubled thoughts. 

"I'm not afraid, Susan, the way I was 
when you met me. Not the way I was, 
I say — which doesn't mean that I'm not 
afraid. A man's a fool, I think, not to 
be, in the face of danger and death. 
Sometimes I think that a lot of the men 
you hear stories about — the kind they 
say go laughing into battle — are just 
not smart enough to realize what 
they're up against. The real heroes are 
the fellows who know what the odds 
are against them — and then pull up 
their pants and cock their hats over 




their eyes and do the job they're sup- 
posed to do in spite of knowing. 

"But I'm not trembling in a blue 
funk anymore, Susan — and that's your 
doing. All yours. You've done — " 

And then I was afraid. I was afraid 
of what he was going to say, afraid to 
let him go on. I disengaged my fingers 
and got to my feet. 

"Steven, if I don't go home I'll never 
be able to get up in the morning. You're 
bad for me — I've been keeping dis- 
graceful hours since I met you." 

Reluctantly, he stood up beside me. 
"All right, Sue. I know you're cutting 
me off — you can't fool me. But there's 
plenty of time." 

Only there wasn't plenty of time. 
Maybe if there had been, things would 
be different now. You see, when 
Steven called for me the next night, 
some of the fear was back in his eyes. 
A little muscle at the side of his mouth 
twitched torturously, and his voice, 
when he spoke, was flat in an effort to 
keep it controlled. 

But he only said, "Come along. Out 
to the river. I've got to talk to you." 

And that was all he said, until we 
were seated side by side on the grass 
once more, his hand held tightly in 
mine. Even then he was silent for a 
little while, but when he did speak it 
sounded as if he were pronouncing 
sentence of death. 

"I've got my orders. I've got to leave 
on Wednesday." 

OE had to leave on Wednesday — and 
■--* this was Friday. In less than a 
week, he must go. And for almost the 
first time, I had a personal feeling about 
Steven. Until then, I had considered 
him a sort of human problem, a chal- 
lenge. But now I knew, with a swift 
pang, that I should miss him — dread- 
fully. He had become a part of my life, 
filling my days with thoughts of him, 
my evenings with his company. I re- 
membered then, what I had tried to put 
out of my mind — that I was a woman, 
with a woman's feelings, and that 
SJeven was a man. I didn't want any 
more of love — not even the kind of 
sweet affection that I felt welling up in 
me for poor Steve. Love, love of any 
kind, can hurt too much. 

"Wednesday." He repeated it in that 
flat, dull voice — but now there was 
feeling behind it somewhere — the feel- 
ing that I had taught him. "Susan — 
I can't!" 

I turned to face him squarely. "Yes 
you can, Steve. Don't you see, dear — 
it isn't just you. There are thousands 
of men all over the country who are 
hating the orders that send them away 
just as much as you are. And thou- 
sands of women who are finding out 



>■ 



JACKIE KELK, who as Homer Brown is the principal thorn in the 
side of Henry Aldrich, Thursday nights on NBC. At the age of eight, 
he made his stage debut with Madge Kennedy in "Bridal Wise." 
In 1934, he went to Hollywood for a role in "Born to Be Bad," with 
Loretta Young and Cary Grant. Born in Brooklyn, Jackie would 
have been a jockey if he had allowed his small size and his parents' 
suggestions to sway him. He felt more like acting, and so that is 
what he did. Fanny Brice saw him in a play and brought him to 
radio, as her son "Oiving" in The Cohens. Roles in Terry and the 
Pirates and The Gumps were all he needed to help him decide that 
radio was the place for him. When he's not working as a bus boy 
at the Stage Door Canteen or doing a broadcast, he relaxes with 
his collection of swing and classical records, or in a gin rummy game. 



what fear and heartbreak are, saying 
goodbye to those men. It isn't just you. 
It's everyone, in these days. It's some- 
thing that has to be faced, and that's 
all there is to it." 

"I could face it," he said. "I could 
face it — if you would face it with me. 
I could hate those orders and still go, if 
you were the woman who said goodbye 
to me." 

I looked at him then, in a new way. 
I looked past the fears and the self- 
reproach, the anguish and the heart- 
sickness. And I saw a man — the man 
Steven could be. Just a boy, really — 
a boy with a mouth shaped for laugh- 
ter, fine, strong hands, and a fine 
strong heart, too. 

With a quick movement, he got to 
his feet, held out a hand to me. And 
when he pulled me up, he caught me 
to him in one swift gesture, so that I 
was held in his arms, knowing the 
questing of his mouth, the touch of his 
hands, even as my mind cried: No — no 
— it's too soon. Not yet, not yet! 

But his voice, soft and low and ur- 
gent, pushed back my thoughts. "Susan, 
oh, Susan — you'll never know, if I tell 
you from now till I die, how much I 
love you! But honey, it's more than 
just love. You're my life. You're what 
I live by now. You've made your- 
self that to me, just as if I'd been dying, 
and you'd saved my life!" 

1 STOOD very still in his arms, not re- 
sisting, yet not answering his ca- 
resses, listening to the urgings of his 
voice. "Susan, if I knew that you were 
mine — mine to live for, and mine to 
come back to — I could face anything. I 
know you don't love me, honey, but if 
you'd wait for me, I know I could make 
you love me, little by little, when I 
come home. Susan — say you will! Say 
you'll marry me tomorrow!" 

It was strange, how I felt. I was see- 
ing Dick, then — and it was as if I were 
saying goodbye to him. I'd known be- 
fore that love was not for Dick and me, 
but in a woman's heart hope dies hard. 
But another part of me was crying out 
to Steven. I wanted to hold him close 
to me, to tell him that his world was 
a safe world, that everything was all 
right. And almost without my own 
volition, I heard my voice saying, "Yes, 
Steve. Yes, I'll marry you. Tomorrow!" 

After that, there were so many things 
to be done, so many plans to be made, 
that I didn't have time to think of any- 
thing but what I was doing from min- 
ute to minute. 

I knew that I must take Steven out 
and introduce him to Mother and Dad. 
I'd hurt them badly enough when I 
came to live and work in the city — 
came with lame and feeble reasons to 
cover up the real one. I'd hurt them, 
too, by not coming out often to see 
them after I moved to town, because 
the excuses I offered for not coming 
were poor ones, too, and how could I 
explain that I didn't want to stay in the 
same room with Dick, couldn't sit 
across from him at the Sunday dinner 
table, couldn't have him walk with me 
to the bus when I left? 

Steven and I almost ran away from 
our spot on the riverbank, and we just 
managed to catch the 8: 30 bus which 
would take us to Riverdale, where I 
had lived most of my life. On the two- 
hour-long ride out there I sat very still, 
ordering my thoughts, telling myself 
that I was glad — proud — that Steven 
needed me. It was better to forsake a 
memory that, however sweet, would 
turn bitter under time's hand, for a 
reality that could be as sweet if I would 
let it be. Steven loved me because I 



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had brought him life. I would forget 
my own hunger, feeding his. 

But the nearer we got to Riverdale, 
the harder my heart pounded, until it 
made me feel weak and almost ill. And 
when we left the bus and walked up 
the long, familiar, elm -shaded street I 
thrust my arm through Steven's with 
an actual physical need for support. 

"You'll love Mother and Dad," I told 
him, in a strained voice that was not 
my own. "They're wonderful people. 
And they'll love you." 

"What about Dick?" Steve asked 
softly, and I knew that that question 
had been on his tongue since the mo- 
ment I had proposed coming to River- 
dale. 

"He probably won't be home," I said. 
"He'll probably be out somewhere. And 
we won't stay long — just long enough 
for you to meet Mother and Dad. Here 
— this is the house." 

THE front door wasn't locked; it sel- 
dom was before eleven or so. I 
opened it slowly, walked into the fa- 
miliar, dimly-lighted hallway. 

"Mother!" I called. "Mother, where 
are you?" 

For a second there was silence. Then 
I heard footsteps upstairs, and I was 
answered. 

"Susan! Susan, is that you?" 

Dick! 

He came down the* stairs two at a 
time, smiling a welcome that lost some 
of its warmth when he saw Steven. 

"Dick," I said, "this is Steven Day." 
And then I added — quickly, quickly, 
before he could say anything — "Steven 
and I are going to be married. I brought 
him home to have Mother and Dad 
meet him." 

There was a brief silence which 
seemed to last a year before I could 
break it with, "Where are they, Dick?" 

"Down at Cousin Ann's." 

His voice was heavy. I found courage 
to look at him, and my heart careened 
to my throat. Oh, Dick — Dick, with 
your absurdly twinkling eyes, your 
square chin with the deep cleft in it, 
your abundant joy of living — Dick, big 
and gay, and all my life until now! 

And so I turned to Steven, because I 
could not bear to look at Dick. 

Dick turned away. "I'll call Mother," 
he said, and the spell of strangeness 
which filled the little room was broken. 
I had a peculiar feeling, when he turned 
away — as if he had closed a door be- 
tween us forever. I waited for the hurt 
to sweep over me, the overwhelming 
grief, the sense of loss. But it didn't 
come, and I told my heart that I was 
incapable of more emotion. 

After that, there was little time for 
thinking. Mother and Dad came hurry- 
ing home, bringing our cousins Ann 
and George with them. There was 
much questioning and exclaiming and 
handshaking and plan-making, and 
Mother cried a little, as mothers will, 
and Dad blew his nose to make sure no 
one would think he was crying, and 
patted Steve on the back. 

Mother wanted us to be married, 
when we had obtained our special 
license next day, in the little church 
we'd always gone to. For a moment I 
thought: no, I can't! That would be too 
much! But then I realized that I really 
wanted to be married there, with my 
family and my friends around me — yes, 
even with Dick standing beside Steve 
at the end of the aisle, waiting for me. 

I was a little frightened then — fright- 
ened, if you can understand this, be- 
cause I wasn't afraid, because I wasn't 
afraid to be married to Steven with 
Dick standing by. 



I linked my arm with Steven's as we 
walked down the elm-shadowed block. 
Somehow I didn't know how I felt, 
what I felt. I just wanted to cling to 
Steve, to feel his arm held tight against 
my body, to lean on him and let the 
rest of the world take care of itself. 

Suddenly I began to cry, and turned 
into the shelter of Steve's arms, feeling 
his dear hands patting me awkwardly, 
man-fashion, trying to comfort me, 
hearing his voice close to my ear. 

"Susan — don't cry. Honey, it's no 
good. We can't go through with it. I 
wouldn't make you go through with it. 
It's more important that you're happy 
than that I am dearest. I — " 

But I put a hand up to his lips to stay 
the words. "No," I cried, "No. It's not 
that. I'm crying because — because — " 

And then I knew. I was crying be- 
cause I was free. I had made a mistake 
in running away, in not seeing Dick all 
those months. Perhaps, if I had stayed 
at home, I would have found out much 
sooner. Or perhaps I needed someone 
like Steve to show me the way. 

I turned my face up to Steve's. "I 
love you, Steven. I want to marry you. 
I didn't really want to until now. But 
now I know. I know." 

But what's the use of speaking words 
at a time like that? Lovers' mouths 
were made for kissing. 

At last Steve pushed me away a lit- 
tle. "Do you mean it, Susan? Do you 
mean it?" And so sure was I, that I 
could laugh my assurance. 

So sure was I that I could turn clear, 
free eyes to Dick and to the world next 
day when Steve and I stood before the 
altar in the little church. So sure that 
my voice rang a clear, firm, "I will!" to 
the minister's "... and forsaking all 
others, keep thee only unto him, so long 
as ye both shall live?" 

So sure that now, now that Steven 
has gone back to his fighting, now that 
Dick, too, has gone to war, that I can 
carry their pictures together in the 
locket I wear. Steven, my beloved, my 
husband. And Dick — my brother. 




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If Love Were Al 

Continued from page 49 



roof, nights when I must cling to my 
courage as I would cling to a rope 
swinging me out over an abyss. Four- 
teen more nights .... 

I was wrong. There was not even 
one more such night. 

The next day was warm and balmy, 
one of those days that sometimes come 
toward the end of winter, like a re- 
minder of the spring that is still many 
weeks away. I had no desire to see 
spring come this year, but I was glad 
that the weather was so nice Tim 
could spend most of the morning and 
afternoon downtown, seeing old cron- 
ies. It would mean so much to him, 
these last few days before he went 
overseas, to feel that he was once again 
part of the town where he'd grown up. 
And it was better for both of us if he 
was out of the house. 

He came home about five o'clock, 
though, and sat in the kitchen while I 
got supper ready, watching me in 
silence. There was something tense 
about that silence. It was not the com- 
panionable time I had known before, 
with Tim. It was crackling, electric. 

Suddenly he spoke. 

"What's the matter, Arda?" he asked 
quietly. 

¥ WAS at the sink, my back to him, 
-*- and I didn't want to turn around. 
But I did, because not to have done so 
would have appeared unnatural. "Mat- 
ter?" I said. "Why — nothing. I don't 
know what you mean." 

"You've changed a lot since you and 
Gene were married," he said, as if I 
hadn't spoken. "Aren't you happy?" 

"Why, of course I'm happy," I said 
with a little laugh that seemed to rasp 
my throat. "And as for changing — 
well, I hope I've grown up a little bit. 
I should, you know." 

Moving his muscular shoulders im- 
patiently, he said, "That's not what I 
mean, and you know it, Arda. I think 
you know what I do mean. Why won't 
you tell me?" 

"But really, Tim, there's nothing to 
tell! I can't imagine where you got 
such an idea — " 

"You don't have to be afraid to tell 
me," he urged gently. "My Lord, I'm 
not blind. I can tell that—" He broke 
off and tried again. "Being in the 
Army has taught me things. Before I 
left I used to think Gene was just 
about perfect. Now I know he's prob- 
ably not so easy to get along with. My 
fault, I guess — I spoiled him. But — " 

I couldn't let him go on like this. 
His deep, worried voice was breaking 
down all my defenses; in another min- 
ute I'd have to say things that would 
show him the truth- — that I'd lost what- 
ever little-girl love I'd ever had for 
Gene, that I loved him, and only him. 

"Oh, you're wrong, Tim," I cried, try- 
ing so hard to put earnestness into my 
voice that I sounded shrill. "Really you 
are. If I've seemed — quiet — it's be- 
cause — well, maybe it's because you 
can't go through what Gene and I've 
gone through together without chang- 
ing a little. And of course it makes 
me sad to think of you going over- 
seas — " 

I was throwing excuses at him, al- 
most at random, and he knew it. His 
lids drooped, and he said, "All right. 
If you don't want to tell me — I guess 
it's maybe none of my business . . . ex- 
cept that I'd do anything in the world 






to make sure that you and Gene were 
happy." 

"I know you would, Tim dear." The 
words were muffled by the lump in my 
throat. "I know. But we are — really." 

Without answering, he looked down 
at his hands, lying relaxed on his 
knees. They were big and brown, those 
hands, with a sprinkling of fine golden 
hairs on their backs, and square-cut, 
scrubbed-up nails. And if once, even 
by accident, one of them should touch 
me, at that moment all my determina- 
tion would crumble away, and this 
ghastly farce I was playing would come 
to an end . . . 

The slamming of the front door made 
us both start. My eyes flew to the elec- 
tric clock over the sink, while quick, 
hard footsteps came down the hall. 
Six-thirty — even earlier than Gene 
usually got home. Before I saw him I 
knew from the thud of his heels against 
the hardwood floor that something — 
something terrible was going to hap- 
pen. 

His face was chalky in the glare of 
the kitchen light, and his eyes shifted 
back and forth from me to Tim when 
he spoke. 

"Arda — I've got to leave town. Right 
away. You better come with me. Just 
throw some things into a suitcase and 
come on. We'll go in the car. I'll tell 
you all about it when we've started — 
no time now." 

THAT'S how he talked— in short, bit- 
ten-off sentences, breathlessly, as if 
he'd been running. It was odd that 
just then I was more impressed by 
the way he shot out the words than by 
the words themselves. Because what 
he was saying didn't make any sense. 

"Come on!" he said when I didn't 
move. "I tell you we've got to hurry! 
Bring all the money you've got in the 
house — we'll need all we can lay our 
hands on — but don't bother about too 
many clothes — " 

Tim must have realized it was hys- 
teria, the hysteria of blind panic, be- 
fore I did. He stood up, walked across 
the room, and took Gene by both shoul- 
ders. 

"What's the matter?" he asked tight- 
ly. "What's happened?" 

Gene tried to squirm out from under 
Tim's hands. "I tell you there isn't 
time to explain now!" he insisted, his 
voice rising to a scream. 

"There's always time to explain when 
a guy rushes in and starts talking 
about leaving town at a second's no- 
tice," Tim said with a calmness that 
didn't exactly fit the out-thrust angle 
of his jaw. 

But now, for the first time, Gene's 
face became ugly. Fury was there, 
mingled with the fear. One clenched 
fist came up, aimed for Tim's jaw. Tim 
saw it, and twisted his body without 
letting go of Gene so the blow cut 
through empty air. He began to shake 
Gene, and he said, "Don't try that again, 
you crazy little mug. Now, you tell 
us what this is all about. What have 
you done?" 

The question rang through the room 
like the beat of an immense bell. Its 
sound was horribly real, cutting 
through the confusion of Gene's sud- 
den appearance and his babbling in- 
sistence that he had to leave town; 
releasing the spell that had held me 
with every muscle tense and still, so 
that I slumped back against the cold 
rim of the sink. 

What had Gene done? Because of 
course his panic was born of guilt. 
Tim had seen that, had had the cour- 



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76 



age to recognize it and bring it out into 
the open. 

As if he too saw that there was no 
hope of erasing that question, once it 
had been asked, Gene went limp un- 
der Tim's hands. He was still shaken 
with fear, but sullenness had replaced 
his fury. 

"All right," he said quickly. "I'll 
tell you about it, and then maybe you'll 
see why I've got to get out of here. 
I'm in a jam. It's nothing I meant to 
do, but— Herb Miller, Arda's heard me 
talk to him on the phone, wanted to get 
a look at some blueprints for a new 
type of direction-finder we're develop- 
ing out at the plant. He said he was 
from Berryman's — you know, they're 
a competing firm." 

Tim nodded impatiently, as if all this 
were something he'd heard before, or 
could have guessed. 

"Well." Gene said querulously, "he 
had an employment badge from Berry- 
man's, he showed it to me once. And 
he knew all about the direction-finder. 
He mentioned it first. And the damn 
thing's no good anyway — we've been 
working on it. six months and haven't 
been able to get it right. So I thought, 
if he's crazy enough to — I mean, it was 
just one gib outfit trying to find out 
what the other one was making — " 

"You knew better than that," Tim 
snapped. "But let it go. How much 
did he pay you?" 

GENE hesitated, trying not to an- 
swer, but Tim's will was stronger. 
"S-seven hundred and fifty," he said, 
his face turned away from Tim's de- 
manding gaze. 

Tim winced, as if someone had thrust 
a knife into his flesh, but all he said 
was, "So you gave him the blueprints. 
Then what happened?" 

"I didn't give him the prints," Gene 
declared. "I only let him have them 
overnight, so he could look at them." 
He said it with great insistence, as if 
it made all the difference in the world, 
but Tim didn't move, his face didn't 
relax, and after a moment Gene went 
on. "That was last night. He gave 
me back the prints this morning, be- 
fore I went to work, and I put them 
back . . ." 

"Well?" 

"I stopped in at Berger's tonight on 
my way home, for a beer, and Harold 
down there told me Miller's been ar- 
rested. The FBI grabbed him this aft- 
ernoon, just a couple hours ago." Panic 
seized him again. "That's why I've got 
to get out, don't you see? Maybe Miller 
copied the prints — " 



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"Maybe!" Tim interjected sardoni- 
cally. 

" — And if they find them on him 
they'll want to know where he got 
them. He'll tell about me — or even if 
he doesn't, people around town've 
seen me with him. The FBI'll know as 
soon as they begin to ask questions — " 

Suddenly Tim released him, let go 
of his shoulders with a little push that 
sent him thudding back against the 
door frame. 

"You crazy dope!" he said. "You 
damn sneaking fool!" 

Gene straightened himself and moved 
a few steps away from the door. Tim's 
violence seemed to have given him 
back a little of his courage — enough at 
least to make him say defiantly, "Well, 
you wanted to know about it." 

Tim turned his back on him. 

I had been waiting, all this time. For 
all the attention either of them paid 
to me, I might as well not have been 
in the room at all. If only I hadn't! 
But I knew that the moment would 
come when I could no longer stand on 
the edge of their conflict, watching it. 
Inevitably, I would become its center. 
And now — 

"Are you going to get ready and 
come with me, Arda?" Gene asked — 
bluntly, like an ultimatum. 

Before I could answer, Tim spun 
around. "Of course she's not!" he 
cried. "She didn't have anything to 
do with you — your treachery! Good 
Lord — talk about the Japs being slimy 
rats! They didn't stab their own coun- 
try in the back, anyway!" 

Gene's eyes narrowed. "You let 
Arda do her own talking," he ordered. 
"And cut out the flag-waving, too." He 
turned back to me. "How about it? 
Are you coming with me or do you 
want to make like you never knew me 
at all?" 

jPVEN in my heart-sickness, I rec- 
*-* ognized his unerring instinct for 
touching me upon my most vulnerable 
point. I could have refused him if he 
had begged and pleaded. But by ap- 
pealing to my loyalty, my pride, he was 
cunningly making a refusal infinitely 
harder. I couldn't answer. I covered 
my face with my hands, wishing I could 
blot out my marriage, my association 
with him, as easily as I blotted his 
image out of my sight. 

"Gene," I whispered. "How could 
you do this? How could you?" 

"All right," he said, impatient to 
bring this delay to an end and be on 
his way making his voice razor-edged. 
"I shouldn't have done it, but I did, 
and now I've got to beat it." 

"You can't get away," Tim said. "If 
they want you, they'll get you. Where 
can you go where they won't find you?" 

"I've got the money Miller gave me," 
Gene insisted with a kind of sly stub- 
bornness. "It'll take me a long way. 
I'll go to — " But he stopped, and then 
added suspiciously, "Never mind where 
I'll go. That's my business. But I'm 
going! And Arda's coming with me." 

Something exploded inside me — like 
a rocket, soaring free into the air. For 
Gene had over-reached himself. He 
had given me the key that released me 
from him forever. "Arda's coming 
with me." He'd said it so positively. 
Even in this last extremity of danger 
— even now, when he was running 
away — he found it important to assert 
his power over me. As always, he 
needed my allegiance, to build up his 
own vision of himself as a daring, won- 
derful, clever fellow. But this time he 
could not have it. 



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"No," I said. "I'm not going with 
you, Gene. If you go, you'll have to 
go alone." 

He hated me then. I saw it in the 
sick starkness of his eyes. And he 
hated Tim too. He wanted to hurt us 
both. He laughed. "All right. I might 
have known you couldn't take it." His 
head was thrust forward a little, and 
his eyes darted glitteringly back and 
forth while he searched his mind for 
something cruel and bitter. He found 
it. "Nice for you, Tim. This time you'll 
have a clear field with her, won't you?" 

The darkness of the hall swallowed 
him up. For a few minutes we heard 
him moving about upstairs. Then he 
came down and the front door closed 
behind him, and the house was very 
quiet. 

The vegetables on the stove had 
boiled dry. Mechanically I reached out 
and turned off the gas. Behind me I 
heard the creak of a chair as Tim sat 
down, and the hiss of a lighted match. 
If only we need never talk! If we 
could wipe out the memory of Gene, 
make Tim without a brother and me 
without a husband! 

"I'm not hungry," I said at last in 
a voice I hardly recognized as my own. 
"Are you, Tim?" 

"No." 

"Then let's get out of this kitchen, 
can't we?" It was so ridiculous, this 
sudden compulsion I felt to move from 
the kitchen into another room — as if 
it made any kind of difference! But 
we'd been here for years — centuries. 
If we didn't watch out we'd be here 
forever, hemmed in between the same 
four walls. 

"Watch it." Tim spoke from just be- 
hind my shoulder, gently, Warningly. 
He'd seen how near I was to breaking 
down entirely. He touched me . . . 

A WAVE, cresting in from some wide, 
dark sea, lifted me and flung me 
into his arms. I clung there, sobbing, 
whispering broken words of endear- 
ment that seemed to be spoken by my 
heart, not my lips at all. Time didn't 
exist any longer, nor space — there were 
only Tim and me, the two of us, lost 
in a whirling ecstasy. 

Sanity came back, finally. I was on 
the couch in the living room, every 
muscle of my body weak, relaxed, and 
Tim sat beside me, holding one of my 
hands in his. He had touched a match 
to the fire, and the little flames, like 
cats' tongues, crackled and snapped 
avidly over the dry wood. For a long 
time, theirs was the only sound. Even 
when Tim spoke he did not seem to 
break the silence so much as to under- 
line it. 

"It was my fault," he said. "All of 
it. For a year, now, I've tried not to 
believe that, but after tonight I can't 
kid myself any more. Ever since Pa 
and Ma died, I've seen to it that there 
was never anything Gene wanted that 
he didn't get — one way or another. He 
never had a chance to grow up. I 
wouldn't let him." 

"That isn't true, Tim." The words 
came without any thought from me. 
They had to be said, that was all. "Peo- 
ple like Gene are what they are. You 
can't change them. I tried. But I think 
I knew all the time that someday — 
something like this would happen." 

"Yes — you tried," he assented. 
"Thanks to me, it had to be you that 
tried." 

"You thought you were helping us, 
Tim. You weren't to blame . . ." 

He raised his head, and in the fire- 
light I saw the anguish in his eyes. 



"You never knew the whole story," 
he said. "You thought Gene wanted to 
marry you, but couldn't because he 
didn't have a job, security. I knew 
that — that wasn't so. Gene didn't want 
to marry anyone. He — wanted you. 
That was all. And I was afraid . . . 
he's always been so clever at getting 
around people, and I knew you loved 
him ... I was afraid he might get 
what he wanted. But I knew he 
wanted money, too. So I made a bar- 
gain with him. He could have my 
share of our inheritance if he'd marry 
you. — Oh, it wasn't as blunt as all that. 
It wasn't a deal, in so many words, but 
we understood each other. And by 
coming to you first, telling you my 
plan before I told him, I put him into 
a position he couldn't get out of very 
easily, even if he'd wanted to." 

MY fingers were gripping his hand 
so tightly that the long nails cut 
into his flesh, hurting him. Hours later 
I saw the red, curved scars. But now 
neither of us was conscious of anything 
but Tim's slow, painful words. 

"And I thought I was doing some- 
thing wonderful for you, too," he went 
on bitterly. "I was that much of a 
fool. I didn't see what a low trick I 
was really playing on you, or how im- 
possible it was that Gene would settle 
down and be a model husband. All I 
could see was the fine, big sacrifice I 
was making." His mouth twisted into 
a soundless laugh. "I was being noble. 
Fixing it so the girl I loved, but who 
didn't even know I existed, got married 
to my brother." 

"Oh, Tim! Tim, my darling! I 
never knew." 

"No, you never knew. But Gene 
must have, or he wouldn't have said 
that, tonight, about me having a clear 
field with you this time. He's known, 
and it's eaten into him so that — He 
might have been different if he hadn't 
known." 

"No." I shook my head decisively. 
"That's something you mustn't re- 
proach yourself for, Tim. I think it 
pleased Gene to know that he had — 
something you wanted. It gave him the 
queer kind of happiness that was the 
only kind he understood." 

Tim sighed and got to his feet. "I 
had to tell you this — tonight, before 
they come here looking for Gene and 
things get all messed up. Even if you 
hate me for it." 

"How could I hate you?" I asked, 
with something between a sob and a 
laugh. "How can I hate somebody I 
love?" 

"I used to imagine how it would be 
to hear you tell me you loved me," 
he said. "The way you imagine some- 
thing that's impossible. I still can't 
believe — " He knelt beside me, kissed 
me on my lips, my eyes, my throat, 
my lips again. But he whispered brok- 
enly, "And now that you have told me, 
I'm in the Army, going away soon, 
and Gene's — we don't know where he 
is, we may never know, and you'll 
still be married to him." 

The hopelessness of his words 
couldn't, just then, get past the rim of 
my mind. It was enough for me that 
we were together, for this little hour 
out of time, enough to feel him near 
me while the fire crackled and burst 
into spurts of flame and then died 
again. 

The ringing of the bell was like a 
whip against our ear-drums. At first, 
as Tim sprang to his feet, we didn't 
know whether it was the door or the 
telephone. Then, when it came again, 



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we knew it was the latter, and Tim 
went out into the hall. 

"Hello? . . . Yes . . . This is Mrs. 
Gorman's brother-in-law. Is there 
anything . . .?" 

He didn't say anything more. I 
waited, while the pulse of a dreadful 
apprehension beat faster and faster in 
me. Suddenly, without a sound, he was 
back, standing just within the door. 
The fire was so nearly out I could not 
see his face, only the bulk of his body, 
ghostly in its khaki. 

"Arda," he said. "That was the 
police at Westerton. The grade-cross- 
ing near there — Gene was speeding, 
trying to cross it against the signal. 
The train—" 

He stopped, and after a moment I 
finished for him. 

"Gene's dead," I said. "Is that what 
you're trying to tell me, Tim?" 

"Yes." 

AFTER all the dreadful activity of the 
funeral, the house was a refuge. I 
came into it alone, and went about 
pulling up shades so that the healing 
sunlight could enter. 

I hadn't had to talk to the FBI men. 
I had Tim to thank for that. He had 
told them all they wanted to know 
and I would never inquire into the de- 
tails of that interview. It was enough 
for me that it had been agreed to let 
Gene take the secret of his treachery 
with him. No one knew that he had 
been running away when the train 
struck him — no one except Tim and 
me and the government men. 

When we were alone for a minute, 
the night before, Tim had said. "They've 
given me back the money Gene had on 
him — the seven hundred and fifty dol- 
lars and a little more. I — I thought 
maybe I'd give it to the Red Cross, 
unless — " He ended on a questioning 
note. 

"I'd like that," I said, "very much." 
And he smiled, as if to say he'd known 
that would be my answer. 

Now, in a few minutes, Tim would 
come in, and — But I couldn't see past 
that moment of his return. I couldn't 
predict what I would find the courage 
to say to him. 

I was sitting beside the window when 
he came up the walk from the street, 
and I didn't move to greet him. I 
watched, as if I couldn't watch enough, 
the controlled grace of his stride, the 
way his muscles flexed under his uni- 
form, the quick glance up at the porch 
as he reached the steps. Just so, if 
things had been different, I might have 
sat at this window late every day, 
watching him come home to me. 



In the hall, he hesitated to look in, 
then came to my side. "Hello, Arda," 
he said quietly. 

"Hello, Tim." 

"It's over." 

"Yes." 

With a sigh, he tossed his cap on the 
sofa and sat down near me. 

"What are you going to do now, 
Arda?" he said. 

"I don't know. I — haven't thought 
much about it." 

"You ought to go away somewhere 
— have a rest." 

"Yes. Perhaps." 

Suddenly he burst out furiously, "It's 
the devil — knowing that I've got to 
leave so soon and be gone for — for so 
long. There's things I want to say to 
you, and this isn't the time or place for 
them, but I'll say them anyway. I love 
you — I'll always love you — and if you'll 
wait until I come back — " 

I slipped to my knees beside him. 
"Tim," I said, "wait. Maybe this is 
going to shock you. As you said, this 
isn't the time nor place for talking 
about how much we need each other. 
But we've made so many mistakes — I 
don't want us to make another, just 
because we're afraid of conventions and 
proprieties. There's a little chance for 
happiness left to us. Let's take it — 
take it now. Let's go away together, 
tonight, and be married tomorrow, in 
Chicago or wherever you want to go." 

He held me with his eyes for a long 
time before he said, "Are you sure, 
Arda? You know what it would mean 
to you?" 

"I know," I answered. "Nobody 
here will understand. I won't be able 
to come back and live in this town. It 
will hurt Mother and Father, for a 
while. All right. I'd rather have it 
that way than let people know what 
Gene really was. I'd rather they'd 
blame me than Gene. We owe him 
that much — and it really doesn't mat- 
ter. We'll know we're doing the right 
thing, and that's all that counts." 

"You're brave, Arda," Tim said hum- 
bly. "I wanted to ask you — but I was 
afraid." 

Tears came into my eyes, and I tried 
to blink them away. "I was afraid 
too, of what you'd think. I didn't 
know, until I was actually doing it, if 
I'd have courage enough to tell you 
what I wanted." 

Without a word, he knelt beside me, 
holding me in his arms. It seemed 
right, somehow, that we should be 
there, in the attitude of prayer, be- 
cause there was a prayer for the future 
in both our hearts. 

The End 




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^51 



shut a door between us, barring me 
out. So I had to wait, until rare mo- 
ments like these, when he felt like 
talking. 

"You're the best printer in the state," 
I said. "You're not beneath anybody." 

He thought about that for a moment. 
"The best printer," he said, "but only 
a printer, eh? Julie's folks, they came 
over here on the Mayflower, or some- 
thing. And she's a college graduate." 

I took a deep breath. I tried not to 
let him see how it hurt me to hear 
him talk about Julie, and yet how 
eagerly I waited for every word. 

"Well," I told him, "my father says 
a good printer is a real artist, and that 
the people in the trade have a lot of 
respect for you. He heard of you before 
I came to work for Interstate Press." 

It made him feel better, I was sure. 
Later at dinner, he told me more about 
Julie, about how they had met, and 
fallen in love, and why she had walked 
out of their apartment two years ago 
and hadn't come back. 

W/"HEN she'd first met Michael, Julie 
™ had already been making a place 
for herself in the advertising business. 
She was clever, very clever, in many 
ways. She could write radio commer- 
cials that snapped and crackled. She 
could assist in the planning of a whole 
campaign, from helping to put the radio 
show together, to getting out the bro- 
chures; the printed material that sold 
the advertising to the trade — that was 
how she happened to meet Michael 
Shannon. 



Come Back, Beloved! 

Continued jrom page 25 

She'd come into the print shop one 
evening with the stride of a tigress, 
waving a proof in her hand. She was 
furious. Something had gone wrong, 
hadn't come out the way she had 
planned it, and Julie was the kind of 
girl who couldn't stand not having 
things come out the way she planned. 

She'd bumped into Michael, the fore- 
man. He didn't have to tell me what 
had happened then. I was sure that 
under the spell of his blarney, the 
tigress had turned to a starry-eyed 
kitten. 

She'd been in the printing plant sev- 
eral times after that, for no urgent 
reason, or rather none that was ap- 
parent from the looks of the proof. 
And once, while they were bending 
together over a printed page, their 
heads and their hands had touched, and 
he'd drawn a heart, instead of the cor- 
rections she'd suggested. He'd put his 
initials in one side of the heart, and 
Julie had laughed and written her tele- 
phone number in the other. 

They were married, although her 
family, her friends, every one but 
Julie herself, had felt it wouldn't turn 
out right. Even Michael had known 
that danger must surely lie ahead. 
But then, Michael never was one to 
avoid a thing simply because it was 
dangerous. 

That was as much as Michael told 
me that evening at dinner, except that 
they had fought bitterly, and that 
when they weren't fighting they were 
making love. She'd walked out of 
their apartment one day leaving half 



her things. She was afraid, he said, 
that if she'd stayed to pack them, she 
would have stayed forever. 

When he had finished talking, he 
sat there across the table from me, 
staring at nothing. It hurt me to see 
that blank, hopeless look on his face. 

"Let's dance," I said. 

He got up to dance, and then he 
heard what the orchestra was playing, 
an old song, "If I Forget You." 

"We won't dance to that," he said, 
sitting down. 

| DIDN'T have to ask why. I knew it 
* must have been their favorite, his 
and Julie's. I reached across the table 
and put my hand on top of his. 

We went out together a lot after 
that. 1 felt he was lonely for the 
company of a girl he could talk to, a 
girl he could respect. There were 
other women in his life. I knew that. 
Once when I found a bobby pin in his 
car, a dark hairpin that surely wasn't 
mine, I tried to hide my jealousy by 
teasing him about it. 

"Who is she?" I asked. 

He shut me up quickly. "She's no- 
body you'd want to meet." 

I didn't ask any more questions after 
that, though I couldn't help feeling a 
little jealous, a little hurt, and so I 
consoled myself with the thought that 
she didn't mean a thing to him, that 
she was some one he couldn't respect. 

He did respect me. I had that to cling 
to. But sometimes I felt . . . well, that 
the only reason he was with me so 
much was that he knew his heart was 



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82 



safe, that he wasn't going to fall in 
love with me. 

I didn't know what to do. I had fallen 
so terribly in love. I used to look for- 
ward to those good times we had, danc- 
ing, bowling, and those lovely long 
rides in his car. And once in a while 
we'd spend a whole Sunday at a nearby 
lake resort, just the two of us, together. 
And yet I felt that I had become a habit 
to him, that it would go on and on like 
this until one day he would tire of it, 
and that would be the end. 

Then came that horrible Fourth of 
July. 

I'd been looking forward to it for 
weeks. The plant would be closed, of 
course, and I'd told myself that we'd 
have a long, glorious day together, 
Michael and I. Perhaps we'd spend our 
time at the lake, or maybe we'd go on 
a picnic somewhere, just the two of us, 
or to one of the resorts where there'd 
be the amusement park in the daytime 
and dancing and fireworks at night. It 
didn't really matter to me where we 
went — as long as we were together. 

But the Fourth kept getting nearer 
and nearer, and Michael didn't say a 
word about it. Finally I simply couldn't 
stand it any longer, and I asked him, 
very casually — as I knew you had to do 
with Michael, by that time, to get any- 
thing out of him — what he was going 
to do on the Fourth. I thought surely 
that would bring our plans out into the 
open, but it turned out that there 
weren't any our plans. 

"I don't know," he said. "Not much I 
guess — hang around with some of the 
boys." And when I tried to press the 
point, he repeated with emphasis, "I 
don't know!" and closed his mouth into 
a firm, hard line that told me I'd 
better not ask any more questions if I 
knew what was good for me. 

| SWALLOWED the lump that rose 
* in my throat, and told myself that 
there was still time. But the next day 
went by, and the next, and then it was 
the Fourth of July, and I was home, 
without any idea where Michael was. 

Most of the day I sat home, hoping 
he'd call, but he didn't. So of course 
I was just in the right mood when one 
of the girls from the office telephoned 
to suggest I go out with her and some 
friends of hers. "Just because we're a 
bunch of old maids without dates on 
the holiday is no reason why we 
shouldn't have some fun," she per- 
suaded. "We're going to the Patio." 

I'd heard about the Patio. It was a 
big, noisy night club on the east side 
of town. It had a floor show people 
talked about in whispers and a reputa- 
tion that was nothing to be proud of. 
But after all, I told myself, it would be 
fun to find out what a place like that 
was like. Michael often went to places 
like that. Besides, there'd be six of us 
— surely that would be safe enough. 

"All right," I said, making up my 
mind swiftly, "I'll go." 

We took a table near the wall, in one 
of the booths. It wasn't long before we 
began to hear a woman's shrill laughter 
in the booth next to us. It was a sharp, 
grating laugh that cut right through the 
pounding, brassy noise of the orchestra. 

Suddenly the orchestra stopped. And 
then, from the booth where that woman 
was, I heard the voice of a man — and 
the next thing I knew the girls were 
telling me I had turned as white as a 
sheet. 

Yes, it was Michael's voice, and yet 
it wasn't, for it was the voice of a man 
who wasn't himself. I had never seen 
Michael drunk before. I had never 
heard him talk like that. 



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The orchestra started playing again 
and Michael got out and stood in the 
aisle. They were going to dance. He 
hadn't seen me yet. I turned my face 
away from him. And suddenly one of 
the girls said, "Look, there's Michael 
Shannon," and I had to look. 

Our eyes met, Michael's and mine. He 
seemed to sober up in an instant. 

"Ann!" he said. 

And the next moment the woman had 
staggered out of the booth and had 
thrown her arms around his neck. 

"Kiss me," she demanded. 

I couldn't stay there. I got up and 
left, as rapidly as I could without run- 
ning, threading my way between tables 
and around the dance floor and out 
through the heavy glass doors. I stood 
outside for an instant, looking tear- 
fully up and down the street, not 
knowing which way to run. Then I 
felt one of the girls put her arm around 
my shoulder. 

"I'll go home with you, Ann," she 
said. Blindly I turned and followed her 
down the street to the bus stop, not 
able to think, not wanting to think. 

I could hardly look at Michael the 
next day in the plant. I hurried 
through my work and left as quickly 
as I could so he wouldn't ask to drive 
me home. 

J WENT home on the bus. When I got 
off, I saw there was a car in front of 
our house — Michael's car. In the night 
shadows I saw him sitting on the porch 
steps, waiting for me. 

He got to his feet when he saw me 
coming. 

"I want to talk to you, Ann," he said. 

I drew a hand across my forehead. 
."What is there to say?" I said. 

"Ann," he said, "you know I've never 
lied to you. I've never said there 
weren't other women." 

"No," I said flatly, "you've never 
said there weren't other women." 

"Look, Ann," he said, "I know you 
wanted to go to the beach. . . ." 

"It doesn't matter," I said. 

"But it does," he insisted. "Only . . . 
well, when you mentioned it, it was 
just after I'd gotten some news — some 
news about my wife." He paused a 
moment. "My ex-wife," he said. "She 
went ahead with the divorce." 

I wanted to put my arms around his 
neck, to comfort him, tell him that it 
didn't matter, for I saw how badly hurt 
he was. But just knowing he was hurt 
made me realize how much he was still 
in love with Julie. 

"I'm sorry, Michael," I said. "I sup- 
pose you're terribly in love with her." 

He didn't say yes or no. "I wanted to 
go out and get drunk," he said. 

"I understand," I told him. 

"But I don't think you do," he in- 
sisted. "That woman — she didn't . . . 
she couldn't mean anything to me. That 
kind never does. But you — you're dif- 
ferent. You're like a friend to me — 
you're my pal." 

The hot tears stung my eyes, and I 
couldn't force them back. A pal. What 
girl could ever want anything less from 
the man she loves than to be called a 
pal? But he didn't have to tell me — I 
knew how he felt. "You're my pal . . ." 
as if he had to remind me that he 
didn't care about me any other way. 

"Good night, Michael," I managed, 
and I hurried past him, fumbling for 
my keys, half blind with tears. 

His hand reached out, caught my 
arm. We stood very still for a moment, 
and I felt every movement in that 
hard, muscular hand — even the white 
lead-burn at the base of his thumb, 
the place I had wanted to kiss some- 




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84 



times, and then been ashamed of my 
foolishness. All this in the space of a 
second that seemed like all the years 
of my life. 

And then I was in his arms. I knew 
how strong he was, how hungry his 
mouth bruising mine. I had known how 
this would feel, how the blood would 
pound in my throat and in my temples, 
how my whole body would turn to 
water so that my weight hung limply 
in his arms. 

"Let's get married tonight!" 

For a moment I couldn't believe that 
he had actually said it. And then I 
thought all the wild things that other 
women must have thought in circum- 
stances like those from the beginning 
of time. He doesn't mean it . . . but if 
I do, I'll make it up to him . . . he'll be 
sorry tomorrow . . . but I'll make him 
love me. . . . 

"Oh, yes, Michael," I whispered 
against his ear. "Oh, yes!" 

And that was how it was — one mo- 
ment I felt that my last hope was gone, 
and the next moment I had more than 
I had dared to hope for in my wildest 
dreams. 

ONCE he had made up his mind, it 
seemed as if Michael couldn't get 
started fast enough. He hardly gave 
me time to throw a few things into a 
bag, to write a note to leave behind me. 
Then we were off in the car, driving 
to Elkton, just over the Maryland 
border — driving like mad all the way, 
as if Michael were trying to escape all 
that he had left behind him. 

We got to Elkton hours too early. 
The town was still in bed. 

"There's a — a hotel around here 
somewhere," Michael said uncertainly 
as he parked the car in front of the 
place where you get your marriage 
license. "If you want . . ." 

I shook my head. "Michael, darling 
— it's such a lovely, warm night. Let's 
stay here, in the car." 

He didn't say anything. For a mo- 
ment we sat very still, and I felt cold, 
even though the night was stifling. 
Then Michael opened his arms to me, 
and I crept into the shelter of them, 
and I spent the next two hours — I think 
they were the happiest hours I will 
ever know in my life — half-awake, 
half-asleep, safe in Michael's arms, his 
lips hard against my forehead. 

We were married in the morning. 
And if it had been up to Michael, he 
would have chucked his job then and 
there and taken me away for a honey- 
moon. It was I who suggested we go 
back to his apartment. I knew he was 
badly needed at the plant. 

"We can arrange for a honeymoon 
later," I said. 

So we went back to the little two- 
room apartment where he lived. 

"It's a messy little place I'm taking 
you to," he said. 

I laughed. "That's my job from now 
on," I told him. I was terribly happy. 

He carried me across the doorway. 
Leave it to Michael to think of that. 
And when we got inside, I saw he was 
right. The living room looked as if it 
had been visited by a cyclone. The 
curtains looked as though they hadn't 
been washed since ... I didn't want 
to say her name, not even to myself . . . 
since she had left. 

I went into the tiny bedroom. The 
bed was unmade, of course. 

"Michael darling," I said, "where do 
you keep the clean linen — the sheets 
and pillow cases, for instance?" 

He gave me a strange look. For a 
man who had just been married, he 
didn't seem so happy. 



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FREE 



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inrmrcm* 



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"In the bedroom closet," he said, 
"Julie used to . . ." 

He stopped when he saw my face. I 
must have looked as though he had 
stabbed me. 

"In the closet," he said again, flatly. 

I turned quickly away. "I'll get 
them," I said, trying to control my 
voice. Julie, Julie, I thought. Why 
does she have to interfere with us now? 

I went to the closet and opened it, 
and began shoving aside his suits. And 
suddenly I couldn't repress a little cry. 
For in the back of the closet were a 
woman's clothes. Dusty dresses. Julie's 
dresses, in his ... in our bedroom 
closet. 



And so Ann starts her married life 
with Michael — and with the memory 
of Julie standing between them. Can 
there be happiness for Ann, in spite of 
her love for Michael, or for Michael 
himself, who persists in cherishing his 
dream? Read the exciting second in- 
stalment of "Come Back, Beloved!" 
in the August Radio Mirror. 



That We May Serve 

Continued from page 38 

find these stamps on the comparatively 
small pieces of meat you buy," he ex- 
plained, "but you will find it on the big 
wholesale pieces from which your meat 
is cut — always! Consequently your 
butcher will have no trouble proving 
he's doing an honest business — if he is!" 

Then he reminded Ruth and his wife, 
Helen, that it was simple enough, after 
all, to ask to see the wholesale piece 
of meat from which their order was cut 
any time the price was excessive. 

Ruth told me she didn't sleep well 
that Sunday night. She was unhappy 
because she had bought Black Market 
meat, of course. She says she felt a 
traitor and a fool, too. Also, she kept 
rehearsing what she was going to say 
to the butcher in the morning. She 
hated the thought of a scene. I guess 
the Black Market thieves know how 
we all hate scenes — and count on this, 
among other things, for their protection. 

MONDAY morning, soon as Ruth 
Smith had her breakfast dishes 
done and her beds made, she marched 
straight to the butcher shop and told 
the butcher he had charged her too 
much for her roast. She asked to see 
the wholesale piece from which it had 
been cut or — if that particular piece 
was gone — another wholesale cut. He 
evaded her request. He was busy, he 
said. He made joking remarks about 
folks who had bought a fine roast like 
hers not knowing when they were 
well off. 

It seemed to her this proved he was 
deliberately dealing with the Black 
Market. So she went over to her local 
rationing board. In just no time at all, 
it seems, she got to an official who felt 
as strongly about the source of her 
roast as she did. "Too many women 
let matters like this slide," he told her. 
"They feel anything they can do alone 
won't count. That's wrong! In these 
times it's every woman's duty to do 
whatever she can do. Her effort multi- 
plied by the number of housewives in 
the United States has power — power 
enough to wipe out Black Markets 
overnight!" 

Right then and there, while she 
waited in the office, that official re- 
ferred her transaction with her butcher 
to the regional OPA. And I'm happy to 




10^* 



POISON IVY 

...WHEN YOU SEE IT? 

Here's how to spot this "snake in the grass" ! 
Poison Ivy has 3 leaves. The leaves are oily- 
have a waxy appearance. And, as seen above, 
they are pointed like spearheads. 

Beware! Poison Ivy grows everywhere— 
from backyard to backwoods. KNOW IT 
when you see it! And know what to do if 
you get it! 

Don't scratch those Poison Ivy blisters. 
That spreads it. Instead use ANTIPHLOGISTINE! 
Apply ANTIPHLOGISTINE, at room tempera- 
ture, 14 i nc h thick on gauze or cotton cloth. 
Change the dressing every 8 to 12 hours. 
ANTIPHLOGISTINE eases the itching. It helps 
to promote healing. 

Here's an efficient first aid dressing ! Keep 
it in your home for many emergencies ! 
ANTIPHLOGISTINE'S ALL-AROUND 
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muscular lumbago, chest cold symptoms— 
ANTIPHLOGISTINE is always a friend in need! 

Antipnlogistitie 

Always keep a 
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tor emergencies. ■* — .^ "^sstj 

A product of ~ f 
The Denver Chemical Mfg. Co., New York, N. Y. 
•Save this picture to help you identify Poison Ivy 



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WITH SENDERS NAME tU.iAMPLES 



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• Because of the 
action that takes 
place in septic tanks — owners are ex- 
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for sanitary cleaning purposes. Here is 
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It is no longer necessary to scrub 
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in all types of septic tanks, used accord- 
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FREE FACTS: This authoritative report is 
available for use by septic tank owners. 
It's free. For complete information just 
address a post-card to The Hygienic Prod- 
ucts Company, Dept KK, Canton, Ohio. 



CLEANS TOILET BOWLS WITHOUT SCOURING 



85 



■ ■ 



: : ; . . 



w*amavr>«M< 




FORM 





py T y y^yTt^f * 



Don't be embarrassed by a flat, unde- 
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50 West 17th Street, New York 

Send the COMPLETE GUIDE TO BUST CULTURE in 
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RELIEF 

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At Drug, Shoe, Dept. and 1 Op! Stores. 

DrScholls 
KUROTEX 





HAS YOUR SKIN 
EYE-APPEAL? 



If your skin can't etand a close-up, better 
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POSLAM 



86 



say that butcher, as well as the group 
of Black Market racketeers from whom 
he bought meat, have been dealt with — 
as they deserved. 

That's the story, just as she told it 
to me. ... It set me to thinking. ... It 
set me to thinking how full the hands of 
women are in this war. . . . Many of us 
are closer to the firing line than wo- 
men ever were before. The WAACS, 
WAVES, SPARS, and Women Marines, 
in their pretty, practical uniforms, are 
being sent to many important places. 
We're part of vital assembly lines, too. 
Some of us, of course, spend much of 
our time at home. We have to! We 
contribute to Victory, too. We have 
little ones who are busy growing up 
straight and strong. We have big ones 
who are working hard in defense 
plants, on farms, in offices and shops 
where they're short-handed because so 
many already have left. 

And it just stands to reason all these 
people have to be well fed. 

Ordinarily — I know — it's easy enough 
to get up savory dishes that please the 
appetite and supply bodies with the 
necessary mineral salts, proteins, car- 
bohydrates, vitamins and fats. But right 
now I know how much figuring and 
alloting and realloting of ration stamps 
it takes to make a family's points pro- 
vide healthy, tempting meals through- 
out a week. That's why I'm always 
urging folks to try my recipes, espe- 
cially those which are fine meat 
substitutes and such. . . . 

This is an all-out war. We hear this 
on the radio. We read it in our maga- 
zines and newspapers. But often we 
don't fully grasp what it means. We 
think all-out means more men, more 
planes, more ships, more war bonds, 
more bombs, higher taxes. It does. But 
it means more too. It means, among 
other things, women serving in the 
armed forces, working on assembly 
lines. It also means women working 
as nurses' aids and in AWVS enter- 
prises. Women hoeing Victory gardens 
and preserving summer crops. Women 
turning in fats for explosives and old 
stockings for parachutes. And every 
woman in the land appointing herself 
a vigilant committee of one to see that 
no Black Market meat or vegetables or 
eggs or anything else enters her home- 
ground, since without our support the 
Black Markets cannot survive! 

Which means, above all, that the 
longer it takes every last woman of us 
to do our all-out share, every day in 
every way, the longer this war will last, 
the more it will cost us! 




Father's Day for busy band- 
leader Woody Herman would be 
unhappy indeed if he couldn't 
find a spare moment to play 
with his little girl, Ingrid. 



WATERY BUSTERS 
BETWEEN TOES? 

This Often Helps Quickly 

For 10 minutes tonight, soak your sore, 
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lather of Sayman Wonder Soap — and 
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on plenty of medicated Sayman Salve — 
over the painful cracks, sore spots and 
watery blisters. Do this for 10 nights and 
shout with joy for comforting relief. 
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SAYMAN SALVE 




CASH FOR STAMPS 

ACCEPT ILLUSTRATED FOLDER 

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You may have this and other valuable stamps 
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C. W. Jasperson, Dept.L-2, Beverly Hills, Calif. 



WILL YOU WEAR THIS SUIT 



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EASY WAY..., 



Tints Hair 



Black, Brown, auburn 
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This remarkable CAKE discovery, TINTZ 

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ALSO OH SALE AT WALGREEN'S AND LEADING DEPARTMENT, DRUG AND 10c STORES 

WAKE UP YOUR 
LIVER BILE- 

Without Calomel— And You'll Jump Out 
of Bed in the Morning Rarin' to Go 

The Mver should pour out about 2 pints of bile 
juice into your bowels every day. If this bile is not 
flowing freely, your food may not digest. It may just 
decay in the bowels. Then gas bloats up your stomach. 
You get constipated. You feel sour, sunk and the world 
looks punk. 

It takes those good, old Carter's Little Liver 
Pills to get these 2 pints of bile flowing freely to 
make you feel "up and up." Get a package today. 
Take as directed. Effective in making bile flow free- 
ly. For a free package of Carter's Little Liver Pills, 
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Place, New York, N. Y. Or ask your druggist for 
Carter's Little Liver Pills. 10^ and 25i. 



Food for Next Winter 

Continued from page 50 
Process for 3V2 hours 

Cauliflower 

Break into sections, wash and soak 
in salted water for 15 minutes. Cover 
with boiling water and cook for 5 
minutes. Pack into hot sterilized jars, 
add % tsp. salt to each pint jar and 
cover with boiling water (include the 
water in which the cauliflower was 
cooked). Seal as directed and process 
in hot water bath for 2Vz hours. Broc- 
coli and brussels sprouts may be canned 
by this same method. 

Corn 

Corn should be canned immediately 
after picking. Slice off tips of kernels 
and scrape out pulp. Measure, and for 
each pint of corn pulp add 1 cup boiling 
water and V2 tsp. salt. Boil 5 minutes. 
Pour into hot sterilized jars, but do not 
pack it down since corn swells during 
processing. Seal as directed and process 
in hot water bath for 4 hours. 

FRUITS may safely be canned by the 
open kettle process and many times 
this method is more convenient for 
putting up small quantities. 

Cherries 

Wash cherries, remove stems and 
stones and measure. For each pint of 
stemmed cherries, stir in Vi cup sugar. 
Let come to boil slowly, then boil hard 
for 15 minutes. Pour into hot sterilized 
jars and seal immediately. Gooseberries 
may be prepared by this same method. 
Other berries, with the exception of 
strawberries, may also be put up by 
this same recipe, although they will 
require only 5 minutes cooking. 

Peaches 

Use firm, ripe peaches. Wash, cover 
with boiling water and let stand for 
5 minutes. Immerse in cold water, 
drain and remove skins. Cut in halves 
or quarters, or into slices as preferred, 
removing stones. In cooking kettle, 
place 2 parts sugar and 1 part water 
and bring to a boil. Add peaches (there 
should be enough of the syrup barely 
to cover the peaches) and cook until 
tender. Pour into hot sterilized jars 
(halves should be placed cut side down, 
overlapping each other until the jar 
is filled, then the jar filled with the 
syrup) and seal immediately. A few 
kernels from the peach stones, cooked 
with the fruit, add a nice flavor. 



WARNING 

Reserve Your Copy of Next Month's 
RADIO MIRROR TODAYI 

Paper restrictions now in -force make it 
impossible for us to print enough copies of 
RADIO MIRROR to supply the demand. 
This means that many of you will not be 
able to secure your RADIO MIRROR when 
you ask for it at the newsstand. Don't 
risk disappointment! Tell your newsdealer 
to reserve your copy of next month's and 
succeeding issues for you. It will take only 
a moment of your time and will assure 
you of receiving your copy of RADIO 
MIRROR each month. In your own best in- 
terests attend to it today! 




He Married the ^w« 

It was love at first sight. When George eased into Hogan's Lunch 
Wagon, the two sisters were standing side by side — Dolly, the baby- 
doll blonde, and brunette Vicky, intelligent featured, and tall. It 
was Dolly with the dimpled cheeks and pouting red lips that George 
fell for. So he married her, pampered her and let her walk all 
over him until something happened that brought him back to a 
sense of life's true values. This story from life is the stirring, yes, 
intimate book-length novel, "The Sweetest Promise," in the new 
July True Story Magazine. Don't miss a single word of this power- 
ful story that every member of your family will understand and 
enjoy. 



"MARRY ME TOMORROW" 



When you're seventeen the one thing 
you're real sure of is that every blessed 
>*-'' ^ morning something wonderful's right 
around the corner. "Marry Me Tomor- 
row" is the exquisite story of seventeen-year-old Pauline 
and the two men in her life — young Dave and an older, 
sophisticated man. A story you'll enjoy to the closing 
word. 



ONLY TWO— These are but two of the 

soul-stirring stories you'll find in the big July 
issue, containing the book-length novel men- 
tioned above, two dramatic novelettes, three ex- 
citing serials and twenty other exclusive stories 
and features to supply you with reading pleasure 
for days and days. All are beautifully illus- 
trated with real life photographs, many in gor- 
geous full color. Don't risk disappointment. 

GET YOUR COPY TODAY! 






JULY 



Ihie Stray 



TUNE IN! 



MY TRUE STORY— A Blue Network 
Presentation. A complete story for a full half 
hour every week day afternoon at 3:15 EWT. 



87 



Glamorous 
HAIR 

[ Makes 
You 



Mary Beth Hughes, lovely 
20th Century-Fox star in "Ox 
Bow Incident", uses GLOVER'S. 



HOLLYWOOD teaches you to look lovelier with 
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* GLOVE R'S * 



GLOVER'S, 101 W.31st$t.,Dept.557, NewYorkCity 

Send Trial Package, Glover's Mange Medicine 
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Name 

Address 




AUGUST RADIO MIRROR ON SALE FRIDAY, JULY 9th 

To help lighten the burden that has been placed upon 
transportation and handling facilities by the war effort we 
are scheduling coming issues uf RADIO MIRROR to appear 
upcn the newsstands at slightly later dates than heretofore. 
RADIO MIRROR for August will go on sale Friday, July 9th. 
On that date your newsdealer will be glad to supply you 
with your copy. The same circumstances apply also to 
subscriptions. While all subscription copies are mailed on 
time, they may reach you a little later than usual. Please 
be patient. They will be delivered just as soon as pre- 
vailing conditions permit. 




NAILS 



AT A MOMENT'S NOTICE 



NEWl Smart, long 
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Two of a Kind 

Continued from, page 8 



from round about fished for trout. 
They lived in a little shack without 
plumbing. They read the books they 
had talked about and were impatient to 
introduce to each other — by smoking 
lamplight. They visited the Indian vil- 
lage nearby and became so absorbed in 
archaeology that they drove miles to a 
nearby city for an armful of books on 
Indians, their history and their lore. 
Then they turned back to Chicago, 
rented a sumptuous apartment over- 
looking the Yacht Basin, ordered up 
meals under silver covers and glass 
bells, and went downstairs to the big 
blue pool to swim or to loll in chairs 
under sun lamps. 

AFTER a particularly luxurious eve- 
■ ning Bill suddenly announced, 
"Know what, Merc? We've got to clear 
out of here. We're spending money as 
fast as we make it." 

"I know," she said, "I know, Bill." 
That very afternoon walking along 
Michigan Boulevard she had had the 
same idea. 

"We'll never get to do anything we 
want to do at this rate," he went on. 
"You'll never do the things you want to 
do in the radio or the theater. I'll never 
write my book about a bullfighter. 
We've got to move into a cheaper place 
and begin saving. Agree?" 

He could scarcely hear her answer. 
It came muffled and breathless from 
the closet. She emerged pulling their 
enormous bags after her. It was al- 
ways like that with them. 

For three months after that, living 
in a little flat, they saved assiduously. 
It was as exciting in its way as their 
extravagant spending earlier had been. 
Every hundred dollars that went into 
the bank meant another week or two or 
three in Mexico, depending upon their 
mood of that moment and the quality 
of their living and the spending it 
entailed. 

The day their bank account totalled 
three thousand dollars they resigned 
their jobs. It didn't matter they were 
extraordinary jobs which paid extraor- 
dinary salaries. As they both said 
"What's five hundred dollars a week 
compared to doing what you really 
want to do?" 

They took weeks and weeks to reach 
Mexico. They broke the speed laws 
driving through the dull stretches and 
lingered days wherever their fancy 
held them. When they finally arrived 
in Mexico City Bill went into the coun- 
try to live with Calesero, the matador, 
behind his family's little chemist shop. 
For weeks he did everything Calesero 
did. He learned from Calesero to fight 
the calves on the ranch. He went with 
him to the bull ring, the offices of the 
managers, and to dinners and fetes. His 
letters to Mercedes, living at a hotel 
in Mexico City where he had installed 
her in Latin luxury, were filled with all 
he learned, all he saw, and his plans 
for his novel "I Wed Thee Till Sunday." 

She could not wait for the writing to 
begin. The same day Bill came back 
she pulled their bags out again. "Let's 
head west for Acapulco," she suggested, 
"live at that hotel you told me about 
high on a rocky cliff above the sea and 
you start writing . . ." 

This time they did not even have 
to prod Fate. Two months later Arch 
Oboler, producing radio dramas in 
California, wired Mercedes he wanted 
her for a show and CBS wanted Bill 



as a writer and would they, please, 
shake the dust of Mexico from their 
feet and come back to work. 

Their bank balance, down to a slim 
three figures now, decided them. 

"After all," Merc told Bill "you can 
always come back to Mexico for more 
material or more color and I can 
stay on . . ." 

It was good to be at work in the 
studios again. Mercedes and Bill, as 
usual, overflowed with ideas and the 
manner in which they would execute 
them. They found a small house in the 
hills looking down over Hollywood. 
At night when the lights came out 
in the town and the stars shone in the 
sky they seemed, appropriately enough, 
to be suspended between two heavens. 

When they weren't arguing about 
radio dialogue — having rows sometimes 
which were as violent as they were 
brief — they were discussing "I Wed 
Thee Till Sunday." 

"You'd better go back to Mexico," 
Mercedes told Bill at last, when a new 
chapter didn't progress too well, "and 
soak up more of that atmosphere. 
You've lost it, I'm afraid." 

While he was gone she closed the 
house and went to live with two girls 
she knew. Her work kept her occupied. 
She had his letters. Sometimes she 
wouldn't hear for a week, then three 
and four letters would arrive the same 
day. She wrote in the same spontaneous 
way. Neither of them wanted dutiful 
notes written every morning at eight. 
They wanted only the impulsive out- 
pourings they received born of the 
emotion of the moment in which they 
had to be written. 

St. Patrick's Day, Mercedes' birth- 
day, passed with no word from Bill. 
She discounted it as a birthday. Then 
a week later he called her on the 
'phone. "I'm back," he said, "but I'd 
rather not see you for the first time 
under the eyes of those two dolls you're 
living with. So I've taken a suite 
downtown here at the Ambassador. 
Hurry up. And bring some money 
along, Merc. I've only thirty-six cents." 

r PHE instant she entered the suite and 
-■- saw his eyes, warm and thoughtful, 
she knew he had a new conviction. 

"What is it?" she whispered as he 
held her close. "What is it, Bill?" 

It didn't surprise him she was so 
aware. "I want us to have a baby," 
he told her. "Down in Mexico this 
time — lonely because I didn't have you 
— I watched men and women and 
thought about what made them close." 

Later they went downstairs for din- 
ner. Color flushed Mercedes' lovely 
face when the lights of the Cocoanut 
Grove went out, when the orchestra 
played "Happy Birthday" and the 
waiter set a cake with lighted candles 
before her. "Bill," she said. "What a 
darling thing to do. It makes up for 
my birthday being eight days late." 

On Christmas Eve, 1941, two weeks 
after Pearl Harbor, Bill drove Mer- 
cedes to the hospital. And the next 
thing she knew it was morning, Christ- 
mas morning, and Jon Lawrence Fifield 
was in her arms and Bill was stand- 
ing at the foot of the bed with the 
very silver Christmas tree with blue 
tinsel and blue balls which she had 
admired all the week before in a 
florist's window. And Bill's eyes were 
very shiny — he was so happy and so 
grateful. 





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HESTERFIELD 



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I BELONG TO YOU -The Love Story of a Woman's Brave Answer 

ntinn f«l«ir Pirfiiroc a( IOMFIY WAMFM . MAD IMJN . TUC TUIM MAM 



O V E R H E A 



PAINLESS CHILDBIRTH 

The new safe method of making childbirth painless — 
continuous caudal anesthesia — has been used in 255 cases 
in general surgery with only three failures ... is adap- 
table for use in the treatment of casualties in both 
civilian and military practice where it is desirable to have 
a safe, prolonged absence of sensibility to pain. 

The new anesthetic method consists of continuous in- 
jection near the base of the spine of a pain-killing 
chemical, metycaine, which temporarily blocks the nerve 
pathways for pain below the level of the umbilicus, but 
does not cause unconsciousness. — Watson Davis, Adven- 
tures In Science, CBS. 

BRING HOME THE BACON RIND 

Conservation tip for bacon is the bacon rind, believe it 
or not. You just clean the rind well and use it in cooking 
to flavor soups and vegetables ... as a substitute for 
ration-hit butter to season peas, beans, spinach, etc. 

Ham hocks make a marvelous soup stock for lentils, 
navy bean or split-pea soups. — Adelaide Hawley's Woman 
Page Of The Air, CBS. 

GIVE ME A GARDEN 

Thomas Jefferson loved planting of any sort: flowers, 
vegetables, trees. In 1814 he wrote to his friend Charles 
Wilson Peale, the artist, saying, "I have often thought 
that if heaven had given me a choice of my position and 
calling, it should have been on a rich spot of earth, well 
watered, and near a good market for the production of a 
garden. No occupation is so delightful to me as the cul- 



ture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the 
garden ... I am still devoted to the garden. But though 
an old man, I am but a young gardener." — Dr. Edwin M. 
Betts, University of Virginia, Adventures In Science, CBS. 

WHEN GRAPEFRUIT DOESN'T GET IN YOUR EYE 

To remove brownish water stain from the inside of 
your refrigerator bottle or water bottle, empty it and put 
in a grapefruit, cut up peel and all into small pieces. 
Finish filling the bottle with water and let it stand over- 
night. Remove grapefruit pieces and you remove all 
stain . . . leaving the inside of your bottle perfectly clear. 
— Household hint prize winner, Mrs. Nora Helms on Meet 
Your Neighbor with Alma Kitchell, the Blue Network. 

DO YOUR TOMATOES WILT? 

What causes tomatoes to wilt . . . and what makes the 
blooms and small tomatoes fall off? 

That problem is one the agricultural experiment sta- 
tions have been working on. But we know this much: 
tomatoes need sunshine and water in dry weather. Water 
the soil, not the foliage. That's one thing that's con- 
ducive to wilt. 

If you will get wilt-resistant strains — the Pan-Amer- 
ican, the. Breakaday, the Louisiana Dixie, the Louisiana 
Gulf State — that will help a' lot in solving your problem. 

Damp seasons — when air is heavy and moist — you'll 
find that almost any tomato will wilt a little. But most 
of them will come back. — Garden Gate Program from 
Nashville and Washington, CBS. 




low "fo pick a Swnwn, fxWet, 



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I fp tfw'/te * UcMud Biurxefte 

a richly golden powder shade does most 
for you— Pond's glowing Dreamflower 
"Dark Rachel." Mrs. Elliott Roosevelt . 
says, "The minute I smooth on 'Dark 
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but the powder itself doesn't show a bit!" 



Five smooth-and-seducti ve shades. 
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Pond's new Dreamflower Powder 
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"Will I use Mum after this bath? 




She knows this Charm Secret- 
Baths take care of the past, but Mum prevents 
risk of future underarm odor! 

"CVERY GIRL knows ways to heighten her appeal to a man! Her 
J-' pretty clothes, her flattering make-up and hair-do— are chosen 
to catch his eye— perhaps help win his heart! 

What a tragic mistake then, if she forgets this most important 
rule of charm: Never give underarm odor a chance! Why expect 
after-bath freshness to last without help-underarms need the added 
protection of Mum! 

Baths just take care of the past-Mum prevents risk of future 
underarm odor without stopping perspiration, irritating the skin or 
harming clothes. Mum keeps you nice to know— fun to date! Start 
today with Mum! 

For Sanitary Napkins— Gentleness, safety, dependability— make Mum ideal 
for this important purpose. Thousands of women use Mum this way, too! 



Flower-fresh daintiness is a must for dates! So, every 
day and after your bath— smooth on Mum. It takes just 
half a minute— yet Mum prevents risk of underarm 
odor, all day or all evening long! 



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MUM 





Product of Bristol-Myers 



"Lovely you!"— will his thoughts say this after an eve- 
ning of dancing? Dependable Mum guards charm so 
faithfully, you're sure of never offending. That's im- 
portant if a girl wants to stay popular! 



AUGUST, 1943 




THE MAGAZINE OF RADIO ROMANCES 



VOL. 20, NO. 4 



FRED R SAMMIS 
Editorial Director 



DORIS McFERRAN 
Managing Editor 



BELLE IANDESMAN 
Associate Editor 



JACK ZASORIN 
Art Editor 



CONTENTS 

I Dared Not Marry 19 

Shy Gir! 22 

I Belong To You 26 

Lonely Women — In Living Portraits 30 

You Held Me Close 34 

She Loved Him Enough 37 

Toward Victory 38 

Come Back, Beloved! 40 

"Our Town" . . 44 

The Adventures of the Thin Man 46 

Please Take Me Back 48 

Not Only For Breakfast— 50 

ADDED ATTRACTIONS 

The Cover Girl 

Recommended Listening 

Harry James — color portrait 

Inside Radio 



Did You Know? 

Facing The Music Ken Alden 

What's New From Coast to Coast . . Dale Banks 

On The Sunny Side Roberta Ormiston 

The Children's Uncle Morty Stanley J. Dreyfuss 



3 
4 
8 
14 
16 



17 
18 
43 
51 



ON THE COVER — Georgia Carroll, singer on Kay Kyser's orogram on NBC, color portrait by Tom Kelley 




cpnW 



cH 



kn^' 



It is estimated that there are 
several hundred thousand bi- 
cycles in the country which 
might be used to carry work- 
ers to their jobs or for bicy- 
cling vacations, if they were 
reconditioned. Take a look 
around the attic, cellar or 
garage to see if that old wheel 
hasn't a lot of mileage still left 
in it with a little repair work. 
* * * 

"Get a big wood pile for next 
winter," Uncle Sam says. In 
some parts of the country per- 
mits are being granted for cut- 
ting wood for fuel in the na- 
tional forests. Farmers are 
urged to cut wood on their own 
land for their winter needs, 
and a number of high school 
and 4-H clubs have organized 
"cut a cord for Victory" cam- 
paigns. 

If your retailer charges you 
more than the "dollar and 
cents" legal price for staple 

t commodities, here is the pro- 
cedure you should follow: 
Point out that his price is over 
fthe legal one. If he refuses to 
lower it, ask for a receipt bear- 
ing your name — you are legally 
4) entitled to this. Send the re- 
J> ceipt, with your address, to 
'jfk. your local War Price and Ra- 
,\ tioning Board. If you are re- 
W fused a receipt by the retailer, 
f| report that to the Board. Re- 
jj* tailers must, under the regula- 
tions, supply the actual sell- 
ing prices of all items on the 
dollars and cents list — display 
them separately on each prod- 
uct, shelf, tray or bin, in their 
stores. Not to do so is a legal 
offense. 



RADIO MIRROR, published monthly by 
MACFADDEN PUBLICATIONS. Inc.. 
Washington and South Avenues. Dunel- 
len, New Jersey. General Business, Ad- 
vertising and Editorial Offices: 205 East 
42nd Street. New York, N. Y. O. J., 
Elder, President; Carroll Rheinstrom. 
Executive Vice President; Harold A. 
Wise, Vice President; Walter Hanlon, 
Advertising Director. Chicago office, 221 
North La Salle St.. E. F. Lethen, Jr., 
Mgr. Pacific Coast Offices: San Fran- 
cisco, 420 Market Street, Hollywood. 
8949 Sunset Blvd., Lee Andrews, Mana- 

fer. Reentered as second-class matter 
eptember 17, 1942. at the Post Office at 
Dunellen, New Jersey, under the Act of 
March 3, 1879. Price per copy in United 
States and Canada 15c. Subscription 
price $1.50 per year in United States and 
Possessions, Canada and Newfoundland, 
$2.50 per year in Cuba, Mexico, Haiti, 
Dominican Republic, Spain and Posses- 
sions, and, Central and South American 
countries, excepting British Honduras, 
British, Dutch and French Guiana. All 
other countries $3.50 per year. While 
Manuscripts, Photographs and Drawings 
are submitted at the owner's risk, every 
effort will be made to return those found 
unavailable if accompanied by sufficient 
first-class postage, and explicit name and 
address. Contributors are especially ad- 
vised to be sure to retain copies of their 
contributions; otherwise they are taking 
unnecessary risk. The contents of this 
magazine (Member of Macfadden Wom- 
en's Group) may not be printed, either 
wholly or in part without permission. 
Copyright, 1943, by the Macfadden Pub- 
lications, Inc. Title trademark regis- 
tered in U. S. Patent Office. Copyright 
also in Canada, registered at Stationer's 
Hall. Great Britain. 
Printed in the U. S. A. by Art Color 
Printing Company, Dunellen. N. J. 



'■ 




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The marines love trouble . . . and this exquisite make-up, perfumed 
with the Fragrance of Romance, can spell heart-trouble in any 
man's language! 

Evening in Paris face powder to create a misty veil of beauty 
...delicate flush of feathery rouge ... bright accent of Evening 
in Paris lipstick . . . surely this is a loveliness combination to storm 
the heart of the most devil-may-care hero! 

Face Powder, $1.00 • Lipstick, 50c . Rouge, 50c • Perfume, $1.25 to $10.00. 
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Distributed by 



BOURJOIS 



Listen to the new Bourjoii radio show, "Here's to Romance" with David Broekman's orchestra, the 
songs of Buddy Clark and Jim Ameche as Master of Ceremonies, Sundays over the Blue Network. 



By KEN ALDEN 




Above, lovely Dorothy 
Claire's personality and 
singing is a highlight 
of the new and success- 
ful Sonny Dunham band. 

Right, she's so little — 
but oh, how Betty P.ann 
can make a piano talk! She 
sings too, over the Blue 
Network, Saturday nights. 



CONNIE HAINES, pert songstress 
on the CBS Comedy Caravan, is 
a girl of many moods. When she 
isn't singing at Ciro's, swank Holly- 
wood night spot, she is singing at the 

Hollywood First Presbyterian Church. 

* * * 

Dale Cornell, Sammy Kaye's trum- 
peter, recently became the proud papa 
of a baby boy. 

* * * 

Maxine Andrews ' of the Andrews 
Sisters, finally owned up and an- 
nounced she has been married to her 

manager, Lou Levy, since 1941. 

* * * 

Bandleader Sammy Kaye who reads 
poetry on his Sunday Serenade show 
on the Blue, has found a poet and an 
opera star in his midst. The poet is 
George Gingell, Sammy's road man- 
ager. Gingell's works — often read by 
Kaye — will soon be published in book 
form. The opera star is Don Bradfield, 
a member of Kaye's Glee Club. He 
formerly sang with leading civic opera 
companies. 

Records For Our Fighting Men, Inc., 
a not-for-profit organization of the na- 
tion's leading musical artists, has an- 
nounced that its second nationwide 
house-to-house drive to collect old or 
unwanted phonograph records will take 
place July 3 to July 31. 

The old records collected (it is esti- 
mated that there are still more than 
200,000,000 old broken or unwanted 
discs accumulating dust in America's 
attics and cellars) will be sold to 
phonograph record manufacturers as 
scrap at ceiling prices. With the funds 
thus obtained, Records For Our Fight- 
ing Men, Inc., will continue to pur- 
chase hundreds of thousands of newly 
released recordings at lowest factory 
prices for distribution to our fighting 
forces, here and overseas, in coopera- 
tion with Army and Navy authorities. 

As in the first drive, held last sum- 
mer, the chief collecting agents will be 
more than 1,500,000 men and women 
who comprise the membership of the 
American Legion and the American 
Legion Auxiliary. 

Enough scrap records were collected 
during last year's drive by Records 
For Our Fighting Men, Inc., to enable 
the purchase of more than 300,000 new 
popular and classical discs, to date, for 
shipment to Army Camps, Naval and 
Coast Guard stations, and Marine bases 
on several continents. 

Records For Our Fighting Men, Inc., 
was chartered in the State of New York 
on June 1, 1942. Its first officers were 
. Kay Kyser, president, and Kate Smith, 
Gene Autrey, Sigmund Spaeth and 
Fritz Reiner, vice-presidents. 

The Board of Directors of Records 
For Our Fighting Men, Inc., includes 
Marjorie Lawrence, John Charles 
Thomas, Mischa Elman, Charlie Spivak, 
Lawrence Tibbett and Sammy Kaye. 

* * * 

It's nearing eight months now since 
brown-eyed, petite Betty Rann was 
launched on her radio career. In that 
brief span, Betty has become a Broad- 
way night club and theater attraction, 
but she is still bug-eyed and bewil- 
dered by all her success. She's a whiz 
at the keyboard and when she plays 
boogie woogie, her feet just can't be- 
have. Betty's currently heard at 10:45 
P.M., EWT, Saturday nights on the 
Dixieland Capers show. 

* * * 

Skinnay Ennis has reported for duty 
as a U. S. Army Warrant Officer at the 
ordnance base at Santa Anita, Cali- 
fornia. Ennis' function will be to direct 
the base's 28-piece band. 

(Continued on page 6) 



DO YOUR BEST. . . AND 







ON the production line, or 
in the home, wherever you 
serve, today you have an added 
obligation to "Do your Best . . . 
Be at your Best." 

America needs you strong and 
well. So don't neglect those daily 
precautions so important for health 
and well-being. Dress properly. Eat 
protective foods. Get plenty of sleep. 
Watch out for colds. Now, of all 
times, it's your duty to care for 
yourself . . . for your country! 

Yes, America needs you healthy 
: . . but she also needs you cheerful, 
friendly, cooperative. So put on a smile. 
Cultivate old friends and make new 
ones. Look your neatest! Be your 



sweetest! Friendly ties will help keep 
us all pullingAogether! 

On the job, and in your relation- 
ships with others, Do your Best . . . 
Be at your Best. 

111 

Today, more than ever, it is impor- 
tant to have always on hand a safe, 
trustworthy antiseptic and germicide 
for prompt use in the thousand 
minor emergencies that continually 
arise. As you undoubtedly know, 
Listerine Antiseptic has stood pre- 
eminent in the field of oral hygiene 



for more than half a century. 
111 

It is hardly necessary to add, that 
with so many fastidious persons who 
know the meaning of halitosis (bad 
breath), Listerine Antiseptic is the 
delightful precaution against offend- 
ing this way when the condition is 
not systemic. Listerine Antiseptic 
quickly halts food fermentation in 
the mouth, so often a cause of the 
trouble. 

Lambert Pharmacal Company 
St. Louis, Mo. 



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Gone are the days when a woman 
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of Tampax has discarded entirely the ex- 
ternal pad and belt worn beneath the 
swim suit and has adopted instead the 
principle of internal absorption for her 
sanitary protection . . . Whether the suit 
is wet or dry, Tampax remains invisible, 
with no bulging, bunching or faintest line! 
Tampax has many other advantages, 
too. Handy to carry. Speedy to change. 
No chafing. Easy disposal . . . Perfected by 
a doctor, Tampax is made of pure surgical 
cotton compressed in dainty one-time- 
use applicator, for quick, easy insertion. 
No belts or pins are required and no 
sanitary deodorant, because Tampax is 
worn internally and no odor can form. 
Invaluable for the sensitive woman who 
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Dinah Shore made a recording re- 
cently but only one copy is available 
and right now it's in Persia. Several 
weeks ago Dinah received a letter from 
a soldier stationed in Persia, requesting 
her to sing on her broadcast the words 
to a song he had written. Dinah's show 
is off the air for the summer but that 
didn't stop Dinah. A melody was com- 
posed to fit the soldier's lyrics. Dinah 
sang and recorded the number and 
mailed the single record to the lad. 

* * * 

Duke Ellington has been held over 
at the Hurricane Restaurant in New 
York until mid-September, broadcast- 
ing over Mutual. Off the bandstand the 
Duke is writing the score for a con- 
templated all-Negro musical. 

* * * 

Bob Allen has formed a vocal quin- 
tette for his band. Members include 
Bob, Paula Kelly, Paul Clement, Milt 
Norman and Bill Scafn. 

* * * 

Barry Wood, who just won a new 
NBC commercial, purchased an old dis- 
tillery in East Haddam, Connecticut, 
remodeled it, named it Twin Brook 
Farms, and stocked it with 5,000 

chickens. 

* * * 

Yes, we need a good, popular patri- 
otic song and you may be the one to 
write it. NBC, in cooperation with the 
National Federation of Music Clubs, 
now has a contest going which we 
heartily support. You have until Oc- 
tober 31st to get your song in and re- 
member to keep it simple, but make it 
stirring. Too many of our popular 
patriotic songs are weak and, we hate 
to say it, but almost silly. The best so 
far, we think, is "Praise The Lord and 
Pass the Ammunition." 

* * * 

The Blue network has commissioned 





American composer Roy Harris to com- 
pose his sixth symphony. Another long- 
hair note is the fact that CBS has a 
sponsor for its pride and joy, the New 
York Philharmonic — U. S. Rubber. 

* * * 

Duke Daley, who disbanded his or- 
chestra more than a year ago to enlist 
in the Royal Canadian Air Force, is re- 
ported missing. His wife is Paula 

Stone, daughter of the famous Fred. 

* # * 

D'Artega's new all-girl orchestra 
consists of 20 outstanding female mu- 
sicians. Over 600 girls were auditioned 
in 22 different cities. The girls were 
chosen on the basis of musicianship and 
beauty. Currently the orchestra is 
making a limited tour of army camps 
for the USO. In mid-summer the band 
leaves for Hollywood to make a film. 
The band's theme song, "In the Blue 
of the Evening" was featured recently 
as the song of the month by Radio 
Mirror. 

Sonny's Disposition 
W/" HEN good-natured, trombonist - 
" trumpeter Sonny Dunham quit the 
relative security of the prosperous 
Casa Loma cooperative band in 1937 
he was determined to organize an or- 
chestra that would play a spectacular 
brand of music, unspoiled by com- 
mercialism. 

It was a noble but costly experiment, 
that lasted five months and absorbed 
the $15,000 its originator had accumu- 
lated as a Casa Loma stockholder. But 
Sonny blames no one but himself for 
the failure. 

"It was my fault," admitted Sonny. 
"I should have known that you can't 
play music strictly for musicians and 
hire inferior men just because you feel 
sorry for them." 

Broke and broken hearted Sonny re- 
joined Casa Loma, but this time as a 
paid employee. He bided his time un- 
til he could try again, capitalizing on 
his earlier mistakes. 

Today, Sonny Dunham has another 
orchestra that is rapidly gaining favor. 
The band is now on a theater and ball- 
room tour, following a successful en- 
gagement in the Hotel New Yorker, 
Manhattan, from which it was heard 
over CBS. Next month Sonny turns 
up on the Universal lot to make an- 
other picture. 

Sonny attributes four factors respon- 
sible for the present organization's ac- 



D'Artega is the pop- 
ular radio band lead- 
er who was just or- 
ganized a new, all 
girl orchestra. The 
band is now touring 
the country's Army 
camps and will return 
in September to begin 
a new commercial show. 
Right, a view of the 
trumpet section, reach- 
ing for the high notes. 




ceptance by a shrewd dancing public. 

"Our highly styled four -trombone 
choir, the personality of singer Dorothy 
Claire, an abundance of romantic bal- 
lads, and capable management." 

The new band was organized in 1940, 
but for a while it looked as if Sonny 
would have to throw in the baton for 
a second time. Easy-going Sonny was 
still letting his men cut noisy capers 
strictly for their own amusement and 
as a result, theater and hotel managers 
turned deaf ears to their unorthodox 
cavortings. The band made twenty 
records, all flops. Desperate, Sonny 
turned for advice to veteran dance 
band operators. They went to work 
immediately. Personnel changes were 
made, books were put into order, more 
conventional arrangements were made. 
Then the band started to go places — 
in the right direction. 

"By September we'll be in the black," 
Sonny told me happily, "and for the 
first time since I left Casa Loma I feel 
confident." 

That Sonny still possesses a sunny 
disposition that has won him many 
friends, is amazing because ever since 
he was a youngster, the road has been 
hard and long. 

THE six-foot brown-haired and blue- 
eyed leader was born thirty-one 
years ago in Brockton, Mass. He and his 
two older sisters, Louise and Mildred, 
hardly ever saw their father. Their 
parents had an unhappy marriage, 
separated early in life. Mrs. Dunham 
and a kindly uncle helped keep the 
little family together by working in a 
shoe factory. 

Sonny first played the trombone 
when he was seven. 

"Somebody owed my uncle Al 
money. Instead of cash he was given 
an old valve horn and my uncle gave 
it to me." 

Sonny went to high school for only 
two years. 

"The family needed all the money it 
could get. I worked at night playing 
with a local band. But then I was so 
tired I couldn't get up in the morning 
to go to school." 

When Sonny was seventeen his sister 
Mildred, working as a reporter on a 
New York theatrical paper, got her kid 
brother a job with a Ben Bernie unit. 
A job with Paul Tremayne's band 
came next. It was while with Tre- 
mayne that Sonny learned to play the 
trumpet. In 1932 Sonny, by now an 
accomplished musician, hooked up with 
the fast-riding Casa Loma band. 

Meanwhile his sister Louise became 
quite a musician in her own right, 
holding down a saxophone spot in Ina 
Ray Hutton's band. In 1940 Louise 
became very ill. 

"The night she died I quit Casa Loma 
for the second time," Sonny recalled. 
"You see Louise was awfully close to 
Mom. Because my married sister was 
busy with her own family, it was up 
to me to take care of Mom. It was 
partly because of this that I decided 
I could do it better by trying to be 
a bandleader again." 

Sonny is very attached to his hand- 
some mother. She lives in a comfort- 
able New York apartment and when 
Sonny is playing in town she usually 
occupies a table near the bandstand. 

The tall, good-looking trombonist is 
a bachelor. Although now classified 
1-A there's little likelihood of Uncle 
Sam calling him. Sonny can't buy life 
insurance. An enlarged, over-active 
heart, the result of more than twenty 
years of playing wind instruments 
caused that condition. 




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Below, former NBC production 
man, Lt. Bill Patterson, gets 
his wings. And it's his wife, 
Marcia Neil, NBC songstress, 
who pins them on. Left, Elizabeth 
Bemis has the distinction of be- 
ing CBS' first woman newscaster 



Their mad antics make up the new CBS show heard on Thursday 
nights. They're Mary Astor, Charlie Ruggles and Mischa Auer. 



BEFORE Bob Hope became a celeb- 
rity, he was one of New York's 
most absent minded young men. 
He was always losing laundry tickets, 
forgetting where he left his shoes, for- 
getting to pay his rent, even when he 
had it to pay. Becoming famous hasn't 
helped the Hope memory. Recently, 
when he left Hollywood to tour the 
army camps, he got aboard the train 
only to discover that he had forgotten 
his wallet, his watch, his check book 
and his fountain pen. He had exactly 
eleven cents in his pocket and, for some 
reason, a three-cent stamp. He had to 
borrow money from the members of his 
cast, who ribbed the life out of him. 
By the time his tour was almost over, 
he had left two suits in a Texas hotel 
room, a pair of shoes in Florida and his 
wallet, which had been sent on to him, 
had been left on a train. All of these 
possessions haven't caught up with him 
yet. Bob is now planning a tour of the 
world's battlefronts to entertain the 
soldiers and has asked the War Depart- 
ment to permit his wife to go with him. 
* * * 

Frank Morgan is a pretty swell guy, 
as one sailor will tell you. The come- 
dian struck up a conversation with the 
sailor, who was sitting on the steps of 
NBC's Hollywood Radio City. Morgan 
discovered that the sailor was lone- 
some, so he asked the sailor why he 
didn't call home and talk to his folks. 
The sailor was broke, so Morgan paid 
for a phone call to Ohio — insisted the 

sailor talk for a full fifteen minutes. 
» * * 

Phil Spitalny won't have the only all 




girl orchestra before long. We were 
talking to Nat Brusiloff, conductor of 
the Mutual Double or Nothing show, 
and he tells us that he is thinking of 
putting girls in his band. Nat tells us 
that many gals play almost as well as 
men and, with a few years of experi- 
ence, will probably equal men in mu- 
sicianship. There are plenty of girl 
violinists and pianists, but what's 
needed are some really good gal trum- 
pet players. 

* * * 

Fred Allen may not be with us on the 
air next year as rumor has it he is 
going to take a full year's vacation. 
That's been a rumor about Allen every 
year, but this time it seems to be true. 
Fred's health is none too good and he is 
probably the hardest worker in radio, 
writing all of his own material, in fact, 
practically the whole show. "Maybe," 
he wise cracks, "while I'm resting I'll 
knock out a few gags for Benny. That 
hadn't ought to tax anybody's brain too 

much." 

* * * 

Charlotte, N. C. — There are those 
who hitch their wagon to a star . . . and 
reach their promised land. But WBT's 
Baby Ray (George Dixon Stewart) 
hitched a remarkable set of vocal 
cords to the wailing cry of a baby . . . 
and now rides right up in the driver's 
seat before a WBT mike! 

A dozen years ago, a 15-year-old 
South Carolina farm boy, sort of bash- 
ful, extra tall, and not a little ungainly, 

By DALE BANKS. 



started hanging around the only com- 
munity entertainment group in Green- 
ville, South Carolina — the Gibson Ram- 
blers, a group of half a dozen hillbilly 
singers and a couple of "gittars." 
Seemed as if the Ramblers just couldn't 
shake the lad — he liked music, people 
and rhythm — and figured he could play 
a "gittar" too, if he could just get his 
hands on one. And so, in sheer desper- 
ation, somebody showed him a chord or 
two, put a guitar in his hands, and said 
"sing us a tune, son." Just like that 
the Gibson Ramblers of Greenville 
South Carolina added another music- 
maker to their group — young George 
Dixon Stewart. 

Then came radio. After a couple of 
years as star performer of the Ram- 
blers, Stewart became a regular mem- 
ber of the studio audience at the Fisher 
Henley programs over station WFBC in 
Greenville. One day the script for 
Henley and his hillbillies called for a 
crying baby. The Henley-men could 
cry, but it didn't sound like a baby 
crying. George Stewart took a chance. 
He auditioned for the wail, and there- 
by became "Baby Ray" of the Fisher 
Henley Hillbillies. 

Four years !~' -, Baby Ray left Hen^ 
Co- 7 on page 10 



,!: wnn 




What to do 
with a Victory Garden 



by BOB HOPE 



7. Of course, you know what a Victory Gar- 
den is. That's a little garden where you go 
out and putter around for a while, and if you 
can straighten your back again it's a victory. 
It's fun, though. I have a beautiful patch 
... on my right hand where the blister broke ! 



2. Mother Nature is really wonderful. For in- 
stance, suppose you want carrots. Well, you 
just drop a seed in the ground and in no 
time at all up comes a rabbit. Of course, if 
you want a bright smile, some Pepsodent 
planted on your brush does wonders every time. 





4. Wafeh out for pests. I'm not bothered with 
birds any more . . . since I tossed a tube of 
Pepsodent into their nest. Now they haven't 
time to do any damage-they're too busy brush- 
ing each other's teeth and singing, "Oh, it 
floats away film with the greatest or" ease!" 



5. Well, that's all. Just don't forget the toma- 
toes. I find the best way to remember them 
is to keep their phone numbers in a little 
book. You know, the same book you write 
in when you want to remember to buy Pep- 
sodent.. .the only tooth paste containing Irium. 




3, After your garden has started to grow, it's 
very important to use Pepsodent— the film- 
removing tooth paste. It puts a bright gleam 
on your teeth ... so if the sun doesn't come 
out one day, you can walk around with a 
big smile and shine on your vegetables. 



-££**** 



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contains 
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How IRIUM in Pepsodent uncovers brighter teeth 




(Film on teeth collects 
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This film-coated mirror 
illustrates how smiles look 
when commonplace meth- 
ods don't clean film away. 



But look what Irium does 
to that film ! It loosens and 
floats it away, leaves the 
surface clean and bright. 



That's how Pepsodent with 
Irium uncovers the natural 
cheery brightness of your 
smile . . . safely, gently. 




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10 




ley's organization, and formed his own 
band of entertainers, Baby Ray and His 
Country Cousins. 

In January, 1943, Baby Ray and His 
Country Cousins came to WBT Char- 
lotte, took an audition, and were forth- 
with added to WBT's Briarhopper 
group. At present, Baby Ray has lost 
his "country cousins." He wasn't con- 
tent with "cousinship" for the one girl 
in the group (she's now Mrs. George 
Dixon Stewart), and Uncle Sam 
claimed the others. 

Baby Ray himself, now singing star 
of WBT's Briarhoppers, CBS Dixie 
Farm Club, Sunday Farm Club, and 
CBS Dixie Jamboree, is 27 years old, 
six feet, one inch tall, dark and on the 
handsome side, and — still a little shy. 

* * * 

Went over to the Capitol Theater in 
New York recently to see Harriet Hil- 
liard and Ozzie Nelson, appearing there. 
Both of them seem to get younger as 
the years, or rather, as time goes by. 
The numbers they sing together are 
still fresh and cute and Harriet now 
ribs Ozzie in a casual, ad-lib way that 
is delightful to hear and see. She's one 
singer who knows how to act, which is 
a happy thing to report. 

* * * 
Quizmaster Fred Uttal keeps a sharp 

eye out for "repeaters" on his CBS 
Good Listening show. They're the ones 
who make a business of attending quiz 
shows in the hope of winning prizes. 
Fred spotted one the other night, said. 
"You've been on this show before, we 
can't use you." 

"Why not?" the man said indignantly, 
"I gave a good performance, didn't I?" 

* * * 
Nashville, Tenn — Eddy Arnold . . . 

Marco Polo with a Guitar. 

The motto used to be "Join the Navy 
and See the World." A smiling lad 
from Henderson, Tennessee, has his 
own version of how to go places. For a 
homegrown product of that friendly 
little Tennessee community he's .done 
his share of globe trotting, and in the 
space of the last two years. This wan- 
dering minstrel's name is Eddy Arnold, 
and the way he puts it is this: "Play a 
Guitar and see the world." 

He knows what he's talking about for 
when the Camel Caravan Grand Ole 
Opry Unit made its recent tour of Uncle 
Sam's military camps one of its most 
popular entertainers was Eddy Arnold. 
Eddy played in over 250 Army and 
Navy camps. Traveling with the Cara- 
van Eddy played in thirty-six states in 



*****„ 8/8*1 



THE HUMP 

HAIRPIN MFG. CO. ch/cago, , W no,s 



this country. The unit also played at 
military posts in the Panama Canal 
Zone and in Guatemala. Eddy says 
that in all his experience playing be- 
fore audiences of every description, in 
small towns and large, none were so 
nice to play to as those boys in uniform. 

Not content with playing the tunes 
he learned while a youngster on the 
farm, Eddy Arnold has lately begun 
writing his own songs. How well he 
has succeeded is attested to by the 
flood of mail that deluges the WSM 
mail rooms after Eddy's morning 
broadcasts over that station. 

Although Eddy is a comparative 
newcomer to the nationally famed 
Grand Ole Opry, he is an experienced 
entertainer. Already, at 25, he has 
been in radio for seven years. For 
many of those years he played in well- 
known folk music and cowboy groups. 
Lately he has branched out on his own 
with a solo act that is increasing in 
popularity with every appearance. He 
stands five feet eleven, has blond hair 
and gray eyes. 

Fellow entertainers on the Grand Ole 
Opry will tell you that the really up 
and coming star is Eddy Arnold. 

* * * 

Over in England there is a Flying 
Fortress named "Miss Dinah." It was 
named after Dinah Shore and inside it 
is covered with pictures of her. "Miss 
Dinah" has already made four trips 
over Axisland. Dinah corresponds 
with the crew members of the bomber, 
has congratulated them after every 

trip. 

* * * 

Kathleen Wilson plays Claudia Bar- 
bour in NBC's One Man's Family show. 
Kathleen has taken the AWVS me- 
chanical course and completed her Red 
Cross first aid course. She wondered 
what else she could do to help the war 
effort until script writer Carlton E. 
Morse helped her out. He had his 





That deep, rich voice of Ben 
Hadfield's, heard over WNAC 
and the Yankee Network, comes 
from 17 years of announcing. 



Left, he auditioned for the wail 
of a baby and thereby become 
Baby Ray. He's singing star 
of WBT's Briarhopper group. 




Fellow entertainers on the Grand 
0/e Opry, heard over WSM, will 
tell you that the really up and 
coming young star is Eddy Arnold. 



heroine enroll in a course of engineer- 
ing drawing at the University of Cali- 
fornia. Kathleen promptly went out 
to the campus of U.C.L.A. and signed 
up for the same course she plays on 
the air. "As Claudia Barbour," she 
says, "I hope that I may interest our 
women listeners in this important war 
work, and, as Kathleen Wilson, I'm try- 
ing to do my part in it, too." 
* * * 

Boston, Mass. — There's a nostalgic 
thrill m the rich, deep voice of Ben 
Hadfield for an earlier generation of 
playgoers who still regard him as an 
actor despite his 17 years as an an- 
nouncer with WNAC and the Yankee 
Network. He began his career with 
WNAC on March 12, 1926, just after 
finishing a season with the Somerville 
Theatre Players, which at that time 
was a nourishing stock company. 

One of Ben Hadfield's great thrills of 
his radio career came back in the early 
days of broadcasting. It came in the 
form of a fan letter. For some inex- 
plicable reason, a woman who had been 
stone deaf all her life was able to hear 
his voice on an earphone set. She lis- 
tened to him and wrote him regularly 
for many years. His was the only 
human voice she ever heard. 

Last year, Ben was awarded the de- 
gree of Doctor of Oratory from Staley 
College in recognition of his meritori- 
ous record. His talented wife. Rose 
Huber Hadfield, actress and elocution- 
ist, was also made a Doctor of Oratory 
at the same commencement. 

During Ben Hadfield's early days in 
the theater, he and Mrs. Hadfield were 
in the Far West when the show closed 
for lack of funds — and no funds for 
the players. Ben telegraphed back 
East for openings as they hopefully 
waited in this isolated small town for 
an engagement. One sweltering eve- 
ning Mrs. Hadfield expressed a great 
desire for some ice cream, but said 
they just didn't dare spend the last of 
their money for such a luxury. Ben in- 
sisted that they buy some, arguing that 
they couldn't get back East on the price 
of a dish of ice cream. So the Had- 
fields went off to the ice cream parlor 
in the town and settled down to a heap- 
ing plate of ice cream. While they 
were enjoying the remnants of their 
money a boy came in paging Ben Had- 



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field. He had a telegram with the good 
news of a theater engagement . . . and 
the Hadfields really enjoyed that plate 

of ice cream. 

* * * 

Radio and the Armed Forces * * * 
Hanley Stafford, who plays Daddy on 
cne Baby Snooks show, has a son who 
was an aerial gunner in the RAF. His 
son's name is Graham and recently left 
the RAF to become a gunner in the 
U. S. Army Air Force. Graham was 
once shot down over the North Sea, 
spent several days on a life raft. His 
father, the famous "Daddy," fought in 
World War I and was wounded at 
Ypres. And his father gave his life in 
the Battle of the Somme . . . The first 
musician known to give his life in this 
war is the late Lieut. Eddie Tompkins, 
once with Jimmy Lunceford's band . . . 
Kate Smith has given an English Bull 
pup named "Boots" to the Marines at 
San Diego . . . Artie Shaw and his Navy 
band will tour overseas for the next 
six months . . . Alvino Rey and his 
thirteen men may soon be drafted from 
those war jobs they took in the Califor- 
nia defense plant . . . Red Skelton may 
be in uniform very soon, maybe before 
you read this . . . 

• * * * 

Shirley Mitchell, the giddy radio 
sweetheart of Rudy Vallee, is fast be- 
coming one of the most sought after 
actresses in Hollywood. She now ap- 
pears on the Great Gildersleeve show 
and also works with Red Skelton when 
that show is in Hollywood. Groucho 
Marx also uses her as a regular on his 
program and two other shows are writ- 
ing in parts for her. She's very happy 

about this, but hopes her voice holds out. 

* * * 

Hats off to Fred Waring and his en- 
tire organization. During an interval 
in a rehearsal, Fred suggested that they 
conduct a war bond drive among them- 
selves. He stated that he would match 
any sum his entire organization do- 
nated for war bonds. In the space of 
ten minutes, the boys in the band 
raised $66,000, averaging way over one 
thousand dollars a man. 

* * * 

Elizabeth Bemis is CBS's first woman 
newscaster. That would make most 
women happy, but Elizabeth still wants 
to be a doctor and has wanted to be 
one since she was a little girl. Her 



She'll take Jack Benny's place 
for the summer. Lovely Nan Grey, 
below, is the heroine of Those 
We Love heard Sundays over NBC. 
Left, pretty Joan Tighe, who 
was heard in Backstage Wife and 
other shows, joined the SPARS. 




parents sent her to an exclusive girls' 
school, which did nothing but give her 
an inferiority complex. The school re- 
ported to her mother: "She is a very 
nice girl, but below average intelli- 
gence." 

By way of showing them, Elizabeth 
went back to a plain, ordinary high 
school and subsequently won scholar- 
ships to the University of Colorado, the 
University of Wyoming and the Uni- 
versity of Paris. She has studied. medi- 
cine in Paris and has traveled all 
through Europe. She was on her way 
to Prague at the beginning of the war 
and the train she was on was machine 
gunned — she slept through it! 
* * * 

NEWS NOTES: Lou Costello is ex- 
pected to be well enough to return to 
his program this Fall . . . Cecil Brown 
has just been awarded a Doctor of 
Letters degree for his magnificent re- 
porting . . . The Cal Tinneys are ex- 
pecting a visit from the stork ... A 
rose to Bill Downs for the fine job he is 
doing telling us about the Russians at 
war . . . Dennis Day is romancing Bar- 
bara Hale, the screen actress . . . Lyn 
Murray, the musical director, is the 
proud poppa of a baby girl . . . Jimmy 
Durante has had six movie offers in 
the past month . . . Sponsor has re- 
printed in booklet form the verses 
written by Fred Allen for his Falstaff 
Openshaw characters. And Alan Reed 
who plays "Falstaff" has just been 
signed by MGM to play "Nero," the 
meanie, in "Quo Vadis" . . . Glen Gray 
and band have been signed by Colum- 
bia pictures . . . Rudy Vallee's Dober- 
man-Pinscher has been taken over by 
the Army . . . Cass Daley is donating 
all her 1943 radio earnings to the War 
Bond drive . . . Goodbye, see you 
next month, folks. 



fc'YouCanTell The Weathei *^24 Hours inAdvance 

, -Urith the 








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R 
M 

13 



Help yourself to summer 
beauty by sunbaths, but 
remember not to overdry 
your skin and hair. Toni 
Gilman, radio actress of 
We Love and Learn, heard 
over NBC, knows the rules. 








14 



LONG before summer settles, green 
and lush, over the land, we con- 
-" sider our wardrobe . . . sheer 
dresses for coolness, sport clothes for 
life out-of-doors, large hats for shade 
. . . Foolishly we do not always give 
equal consideration to the changes 
summer dictates in our cosmetic palette 
and the care of our skin and hair. . . . 

Sunbaths, for instance — special sum- 
mer treats — may be conducive to 
beauty and health too if the drying 
effect which the sun has upon our hair 
and skin is counteracted with oils. 

This summer many of us will be 
staying home, as the government re- 
quests us to do. This doesn't mean, 
however, that we can let down in the 
care of our hair or skin. The sun burns 
as brightly over backyards, city roof- 
tops, the posts from which airplanes are 
spotted, or the farms upon which hay is 
pitched or vegetables are grown for 
Victory as it does over the beach or the 
mountains. This makes a good suntan 
oil a basic investment in summer 
beauty. Use a heavy film of oil if you 
want only a light tan. Use a thin film 
of oil if you find a deep tan more flat- 
tering. In either event, less and less oil 
will be needed as the summer pro- 
gresses and the tan itself acts as pro- 
tection. 

As your skin becomes darker you 
will, of course, change the color of your 
powder, rouge and lipstick. 

There will be many this year who will 
use liquid "stockings." If you're among 
these be sure to apply the liquid so it 
gives your legs a smooth look and also 
makes them appear slimmer. . . . 

The first thing to do, as if you didn't 
know, is shave your legs or use a good 



By Roberta Ormiston 

depilatory. Legs should be completely 
free from any fuzz or hair before one 
dab of liquid touches them. 

To apply your "stockings" quickly 
and effectively spill a little liquid into 
the palm of your left hand. Starting at 
your instep smooth the liquid on with 
long, overlapping strokes. Move the 
color up, up, up, using both hands to 
blend it with long sweeping strokes. 
Keep the color lightest where your 
shoe and instep meet and extend it at 
least six inches above your knees. 
When your "stockings" have dried 
brush your legs lightly with a soft cloth 
to remove any powdery substance. 

Hot oil shampoos will serve your 
scalp well and keep your hair from 
acquiring that dreadful parched look. 
These shampoos can be managed at 
home, simply enough. Heat a little 
olive oil in a shallow pan. Use a cotton 
pledget to apply it thoroughly to both 
hair and scalp. Do this at bed-time, if 
possible, and bind your head in a clean 
cloth for the night. Then, while you 
sleep, the oil will have ample oppor- 
tunity to penetrate your scalp and hair 
and do the greatest good. Have a 
regular shampoo in the morning. 

If your hair becomes especially dry 
under the summer sun a hot oil sham- 
poo every two or three weeks is ad- 
visable. Ordinarily, however, every 



RADIO MIRROR * * . * * 



month or six weeks will be sufficient. 

Another thing — sun glasses! If your 
eyes are strained by the glare of the 
summer sun they may need protection. 
But do make sure the sun glasses you 
buy aren't as much or more of a strain 
than the sun itself. The lens of sun 
glasses should be free of any specks, 
bubbles or waves. Imperfections in 
lens can accidentally create a condi- 
tion which may be very harmful to the 
eyes. Usually the clear stock and the 
grinding required for proper lens set 
the cost of these glasses at three dollars 
or over. 

It's time to consider another impor- 
tant side of summer beauty — of bathing 
beaches, or how your legs will look 
stretched out on the warm sand. Which 
brings us to an effective superfluous 
hair bleach. . . . 

Mix one tablespoon of household 
ammonia with twelve tablespoons of 
peroxide. Whip them together until 
the solution clouds. Make pledgets of 
cotton, pat this solution on the hairs 
you wish to bleach, and allow it to dry. 

These proportions are proper only 
for bleaching hair on the legs, hands, 
and arms. 

A word about the hair-brush. While 
we'll go to any lengths for greater 
beauty we too often neglect the simple 
every day things which pay the biggest 
dividends. Nothing helps hair more 
than a good brushing, night and morn- 
ing. Be sure, however, to brush your 
hair properly. Brushing the top of 
your head brush downward. Brushing 
the length of your hair set your brush 
beneath the hair and pull upward. 

Snap into it! Help yourself to sum- 
mer beauty! 




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(70 





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16 




Morty Howard is pianist-arranger for some of the best small 
fry radio talent. Here he is at the Children's Hour rehearsal. 




By Stanley J. Dreyfuss 



IF you see a smallish, pleasant-faced 
man of about forty-seven stroll into 
an NBC studio with hat in hand, 
place his hat back on his head, then 
remove it again and seat himself at a 
piano and pat his thighs soundly three 
times with his hands, you'll know him 
to be Morty Howard, pianist-arranger 
on one of radio's best known juvenile 
programs, the thirteen-year-old Horn 
& Hardart Children's Hour, heard Sun- 
day mornings, as well as twb other 
weekly air shows. There is no more 
logical explanation for Morty's antics 
in the studio than there is for the scores 
of other radio and theater superstitions. 
"Habit," he calls it. 

Morty is a product of "Dodger-land" 
— Williamsburgh, Brooklyn, where he 
left public school at thirteen to play 
odd jobs at local night spots. After 
five years of hiding from the landlord 
each rent day vaudeville beckoned and 
he played for several trios and blues 
singers until he ran into Eddie Jackson, 
who was about to form the famous trio 
of Clayton, Jackson and Durante. He 
became accompanist for the trio and 
traveled from coast-to-coast three 
times on the Keith and Loew circuits. 

Recuperating from a siege of pneu- 
monia at Lakewood, New Jersey, he 
met an attractive stenographer, Rose 
Meyer, who it developed lived only two 
blocks from his home in Brooklyn. 
They've been married twenty-one years 
now and have two daughters, Eleanor, 
20 and Martha, 18. Both girls play 
piano and sing harmony together but 
are content to leave the professional 
field to dad, who thinks one working 
musician in the family is enough any- 
way. 

Mrs. Howard persuaded Morty to 
leave the stage shortly after their mar- 
riage because it kept him away from 
home too much and he connected as a 
"song plugger," or contact-man, with 
a New York publishing house, switch- 
ing to the Robbins Music Corporation 
six years later in 1929, where he is still 
associated. 

Radio came into his life in 1935 
when the Alice Clements Agency han- 



THE CHILDREN'S 

UILE MORTY 



dling the Horn & Hardart Children's 
Hours, auditioned pianists to fill in for 
Russell Robinson, the pianist on the 
show who made it a practice to desert 
the program every second and third 
Sunday to direct his Dixieland Jazz 
Band. Morty won the job and after one 
show was signed as permanent accom- 
panist. When the program removed 
from CBS to NBC in 1938 he went 
along, and in 1940 was signed for piano 
spots on the shows of the singing eight 
and ten year old Moylan sisters, and 
Olivio Santoro, a boy yodeler, products 
of the Children's Hour, when they were 
given programs of their own. ' 

Besides his regular radio chores, 
Morty manages and arranges for the 
radio and screen negro quartet, The 
Four Ink Spots. He is largely responsi- 
ble for their success, for he arranged 
the tune that made them famous, "If I 
Didn't Care." In the early days of 
vaudeville, Morty says, performers 
would sing a song, then recite a ballad 
and sing again. He arranged the Ink 
Spots' theme in this fashion and their 
success was almost instantaneous. 

Morty records for Decca with the Ink 
Spots and his one and only hobby is 
shortwave broadcasts. He tunes in 
the shortwave band on his set most 
every night and listens into the wee 
hours. 

A Brooklynite by birth, and a resi- 
dent of that much discussed borough 
still, he naturally is a Dodger fan, and 
claims to have dropped ten pounds 
during the 1941 pennant race. 

Morty likes blue and gray in his 
clothing. He has given up driving as a 
patriotic gesture and can be seen stroll- 
ing along the dimmed-out Coney Island 
boardwalk almost any evening for one 
or two hours with his nine-year-old 
police-collie, "Fuzzy." Fishes in Long 
Island Sound and Bayside every chance 
he gets and loves baseball and boxing. 



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THE COVER GIRL 

C IMPLY because she is so beau- 
*"' tiful, the girl on our cover this 
month has been on the covers of 
more magazines than any girl in 
America. Her name, any soldier 
in the Army will tell you, is 
Georgia Carroll. 

Georgia is twenty-four years 
old, five feet, eight inches tall, 
weighs 118 pounds and has large, 
very blue eyes. She was born in 
Dallas, Texas. 

At school, she was a studious 
girl who excelled in Art. In 
order to pick up a little extra 
money for clothes, sodas and other 
high school luxuries, she took a 
job modeling at a local depart- 
ment store. Toni Frissell, the 
Vogue magazine editor saw her 
there and suggested she go to 
New York. Georgia wasn't inter- 
ested, she wanted to become an 
interior decorator. 

After graduating from high 
school, she went to work in a 
local nightclub in Dallas. The 
cover illustrator, McClelland Bar- 
clay saw her there and selected 
her as the ideal cover girl. 
Georgia still was not interested 
in becoming a New York model, 
but friends insisted that she at 
least try it. 

It might make a better story if 
Georgia had to struggle to become 
a success as a model, but she 
didn't. She had barely stepped off 
the train before she was signed 
by the Powers Agency. For the 
next three years her face was 
everywhere, on magazines, in ads, 
on billboards. Hollywood was the 
next and most natural step. 

When Kay Kyser began touring 
the Army camps, he wanted a 
couple of pretty girls to tour with 
him. Georgia and Kay Aldrich, 
then under contract, offered to go 
with him. For months, Georgia 
did very little but stand on plat- 
forms at Army camps looking 
gorgeous, but it bored her. 

Then Kay Kyser's singer, Trudy 
Erwin, left him. One night, while 
their bus was traveling between 
camps, Kay heard a sweet, rich 
contralto voice coming from the 
back of the bus. Kay shouted, 
"keep on, you're wonderful!" 

Georgia was as surprised as 
Kay, but she kept on and has 
been singing with the band ever 
since, in camps, theaters, and now 
on the air every Wednesday night. 





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COMPLETE with pipe 
clamped between his teeth, 
Dr. Watson by his side, Sher- 
lock Holmes has returned to 
the air in response to requests 
from listeners everywhere. The 
most famous of all detectives 
is played again by Basil Rath- 
bone, with Nigel Bruce as 
Watson. Each episode is com- 
plete in itself— a new mystery 
each time. Mutual, 8:30 P.M. 
EWT, Fridays. 

* * * 

As if Barry Wood, a thirty- 
four piece band, guest band 
leaders and a top-ranking 
quartet, the Double Daters, 
weren't enough, they give 
away five diamond rings on ev- 
ery program! That's the Mil- 
lion Dollar Band show, choice 
addition to Saturday nights 
listening entertainment. The 
unique feature of the program 
is that listeners choose the 
tunes to be played and are re- 
warded with a diamond ring 
if their letter requesting a song 
and telling what memories 
make this their favorite is read 
on the air. Five such letters 
are chosen for each program. 
Barrv Wood doubles as singer 
and * master of ceremonies. 
NBC, 10:00 P.M., Saturdays. 

* * * 

John Gunther, noted writer 
and commentator, heard every 
Sunday with John Vandercook 
on Where Do We Stand has 
launched a new series of news 
and views programs twice 
weekly. Blue, 10 P.M., EWT, 
Fridays and Saturdays. 

* * * 

A pleasant interlude these 
warm summer afternoons is 
the peaceful and soothing or- 
gan music provided by Johnny 
Gart. This sort of show is rare 
enough at any time, rarer still 
during the day. CBS, 3:30, 
Mondays through Fridays. 

* * * 

Featuring everything from 
menu hints to the voice of an 
opera star, Your Home Front 
Reporter brings an interesting, 
orderly and highly successful 
hodge-podge to afternoon 
listeners five days a week. 
Fletcher Wiley, the man who 
knows more about the home 
than any ten women, is the 
Reporter, heading a cast which 
includes Metropolitan Opera 
soprano Eleanor Steber, Frank 
Parker, noted tenor, and a 
twenty-two piece orchestra. 
The program intersperses a 
running musical theme with 
advice on scientific nutrition, 
menus to meet rationing re- 
strictions and latest informa- 
tion of all sorts on home eco- 
nomics. CBS, 4 P.M., EWT, 
Mondays through Fridays. 



& 



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THERE are times when words just 
don't mean anything. You sit be- 
side someone in anguish and try 
to utter some attempt at comfort or 
solace, and all you can say is, "I'm 
sorry . . . I'm sorry." Empty, futile 
tirases that soon silence themselves. 
I knew their futility that afternoon 
with Betty Howland. Betty was my 
best friend. We'd been together in 
ligh school. We'd worked in the same 
Dffice. When she and Sam were mar- 
ried on his last furlough home, Tom 
and I had stood up with them. When 
Jetty found she was to have a baby I 
/as the first person she told. 
And now, again, I was the one she 
jrned to. 

She sat there, turning the War De- 
partment telegram over and over in 
ler hands. ". . . regret to inform 
fou . . . Private Sam Howland re- 
jorted missing in action. . . ." 

"He's dead," she kept saying. "I 
enow it. Sam's dead, Mary." 

It was then I knew the futility of 
zords. "Dorl't, honey. 'Missing in ac- 
tion,' it says. That doesn't mean he's 
lead. He may be a prisoner. He might 
Je perfectly all right and just be lost 
jr something. . . ." 

She wasn't listening. Her eyes had 
the look of a sleepwalker. "Sam's 
gone. I'll never see him again. I'll 
lever see him and the baby won't see 



She knew she would be giving her 

heart forever. That's why Mary could 

not say yes to Tom, fearing he would never return 



him. My baby won't have any father 
because its father's dead, Mary . . ." 
Then her hands clenched convulsively, 
and she cried out the question that 
hasn't any answer. "Why did it have 
to be Sam? He never hurt anybody — 
he never did anything really wrong." 
Why, Mary? Why?" 

Out of a dimly remembered child- 
hood, years ago and miles away, an- 
other voice had asked that question, 
another face had stared at me with the 
same intolerable grief. And once more, 
as when I'd been a child, unreasoning 
fear at something only half under- 
stood swept over me again. 

"Don't," I whispered. "Don't, Betty." 
I stayed until the doctor came, and 



her mother. We got her to bed, with 
a sedative. For a little while she 
would know blessed oblivion. But 
when she awoke — what then? What 
was there to awake to, except that . . . 
Private Sam Howland was reported 
missing in action? They'd been mar- 
ried on a bright, soft day last April. 
Two weeks later Sam had been sent 
overseas. Two weeks they'd had, two 
weeks out of a lifetime. And now 
Betty was more alone than she had 
ever been — alone to bear the child of 
that brief period of happiness and to 
grieve forever in her heart for the 
laughter she would never hear and the 
arms that would never hold her. 
When I left her house late that after- 



A Manhattan at Midnight Drama 



19 



-_ 



) 



noon, her words went with me. "Why, 
Mary? Why?" 

I went directly to the station. For 
I, too, had had a telegram that day. 
Only mine had been a happy one. 
DARLING, ARRIVING FIVE-FIFTEEN 
TODAY FOR TWO WEEKS' LEAVE. 
ALL MY LOVE. TOM. 

r pOM. Tom Byrnes. I said his name 
- 1 over and over as I waited for the 
train. There was nobody like Tom. 
Maybe a girl always feels that way 
about the man she loves. I don't know. 
Maybe she always thinks he's the one 
who hung out the moon and set out 
the stars. All I know is that ever 
since I first saw Tom Byrnes, there 
had been a fullness and a sweetness 
in my life where there'd been empti- 
ness before, and the awful loneliness 
of so many years had suddenly gone — 
like a bright candle lighting the dark. 
The train puffed in and then I saw 
him, walking toward me. My heart 
turned over as it always did. Maybe 
you'd say there was nothing specially 
exciting about him. He looked like a 
lot of other boys — neither tall nor 
short, not handsome and not ugly. 
Nothing out of the ordinary, you'd say. 
But not to me. He had dark blond 
hair that wouldn't stay neat because 
he ran his fingers through it, and 
eyes that were sometimes blue and 



sometimes gray and rarely — when he 
was angry, green. He had strong, 
stocky shoulders that swayed when 
he walked, and a heart-warming smile. 
And he had two stripes on his sleeve 
that he was prouder of than anything 
that had ever happened to him. He 
was no different from the thousands 
of other boys wearing the uniform of 
their country. Except to me. 

We clung to each other and I felt 
as I always did, "This is home. This 
is where I belong — here in Tom's 
arms." And then we were laughing 
and trying to say how good it was to 
see each other, and he was telling what 
kind of a trip he'd had. We walked 
down the street to Mrs. Hewlett's 
boarding house where he would stay, 
and I clung to his arm and tried not 
to think of the sad and awful thing 
I had to tell him. Sam Howland had 
been his best friend. 

Neither Tom nor I had any real 
family and, for once — selfishly — I was 
glad. It meant there was no one I 
had to share him with, even for a 
minute, the short time he'd be here. 

"Let's not have supper yet," I said 
when we left Mrs. Hewlett's. "Let's go 
sit in the park — and just talk." 

The Park was what everybody in 
town called the long stretch of trees 
and grass bordering the river that ran 
through the middle of the business 



"How can you go away and leave a wife who can't 
believe you when you say that you'll be back?" 




district. Kids Iplayed there in the day- 
time and lovers strolled there at night, 
and on summer evenings there used 
to be band concerts in the rickety old 
pavillion that stood near the water. 
Now it was deserted. It was six-thirty 
on a chilly November evening, and 
everybody was home having dinner. 

We sat on a bench out of the wind 
and Tom said, "You're awfully quiet, 
honey. Anything wrong?" 

I told him then. I told him about 
Sam — and Betty. I didn't look at him 
but I felt his body stiffen beside me, 
at the shock, sensed the way he re- 
jected it and then forced himself to 
believe. "It was terrible," I said. "She 
didn't cry or anything. She just sat 
there staring and she kept saying, 'He's 
dead. Sam's dead.' Oh, Tom — " And 
then I was crying~in his arms, the 
first tears I'd shed. "Why does it have 
to be? Why did Sam have to go off and 
fight — and you and all the others?" 

His strong arms held me. "I don't 
know why, Mary," he said soberly. "I 
guess nobody knows. But — well, it's a 
chance we all of us have to take. 
Because we're fighting for something 
bigger than all of us." 

"What could be bigger than two 
people loving each other and getting 
married and having a baby — why isn't 
that the biggest thing there is?" I 
cried. "Why do people have to go 
and kill and be killed?" 

"I know it doesn't seem to make any 
sense. But there's a reason for it," he 
insisted. "A reason that's got to do 
with what you just said. About people 
loving each other and getting married 
and having babies. I guess that's what 
we're fighting for. I know I felt that 
way when I enlisted — as if I were doing 
it for you and me and what we felt 
for each other. . . . Mary, let's get 
married! Now." 

I grew very still in his arms. "Now? 
You mean — tonight?" 

"Tonight or tomorrow. You see — we 
all got two weeks' leave. They usually 
give you that long when they're fig- 
uring on — well, shipping you out pretty 
soon. We're all rarin' to get out and 
get it over with — but I'd like us to 
get married — before I go." 

The old panic, the old long-sleeping 
fear washed over me. I pulled back 
from him. "No!" I cried sharply. 
"They can't send you away! Because — 
oh, Tom, don't you see? Because I 
can't marry you now — like this." 

The tightness of his arms slackened 
a little. "But why? We love each 
other. We're entitled to a little hap- 
piness before I go — " 

"That's just it," I burst out. "A 
little happiness now could mean such 
anguish later. . . ." And suddenly I 
was a child again, living in a house 
that held no laughter, living with a 
sense of horror and fear I was too 
young to understand. "My parents got 
married during the last war. Like 
this — just before my father went to 
France. He never came back. I know 
what my mother went through. I know 
what I went through. I couldn't bear 
to repeat my mother's life — or ask any 
child we might have to repeat mine. 
I couldn't, Tom!" 

He sensed that I was overwrought, 



almost hysterical. "We won't talk about 
it now," he said quietly. "You're upset 
because of Sam and Betty. Just re- 
member how much I love you, dar- 
ling — how much I want you." 

That's what I was remembering. 
That, and the fear that lay deep 
within me — as deep as instinct. 

For they'd loved each other, too, 
years ago — Jane, my mother, and 
Harry Malone, my father. They'd loved 
each other all their lives, beginning 
back with schooldays and on up 
through the hayrides and the dances 
and the small-town socials. They'd 
filled each other's world. And then 
the war had come — what we now call 
World War I — and Harry Malone had 
joined up right away along with all 
the other boys his age. Home on leave, 
he'd married Jane the night before his 
leave was up — married at the Judge's 
house, the one brick house in town, 
by the old Judge who'd known them 
both since they were born. They'd had 
their twenty-four-hour honeymoon in 
the "bridal suite" of the one, small ho- 
tel, and mother had waved goodbye to 
father there at the little wooden station 
while the band played "Over There" 
and "Keep the Home Fires Burn- 
ing," and the Judge made speeches 
and everybody cheered. Harry had 
laughed and said, "I'll be back before 
you know it." Oh, I know about what 
happened as if I'd been there. Mother 
told me the story countless times. 

Harry had gone "over there" and 
Jane went home to her parents' house 
and then discovered she was going to 
have me. She was so happy. "Happy," 
she'd said with a voice full of bitterness 
when she told me the story. Because 
she'd believed Harry when he said 
he'd be back. The war wouldn't last 
long once the Yanks were in it. Any- 
body knew one American boy could 
lick any ten Huns. So she'd waited — 
for Harry and for me. 

She wrote him when I was born. 
"... a darling baby girl. I'm going 
to name her Mary because I think 
you'd like it. . . ." She never knew 
if he got that letter. A few weeks 
later she got a telegram. Harry Malone 
was "missing, presumed dead." 

Missing, presumed dead. That was 
ill we ever knew. Nobody ever sent 
jack any of those pathetic personal 
jossessions that would have been so 
precious. Nobody ever came and said, 
"I was with Harry and it happened 
like this — " There was not even a 
white cross among the many, that bore 
his name, that was his. My father had 
just disappeared into the maw of the 
Argonne as if he had never existed. 

It was that, I think, that made my 
mother so bitter — the never knowing, 
the feeling she had loved a ghost. She 
was always a frail, delicate girl, and 
when her parents died in the flu epi- 
demic that winter, it seemed as if 




M 

titl 



1 

titled "Tag * 1 , 1 84,463," by David Levy, first 

Jj heard in July, 1942 on the Columbia Workshop, 

e. I later presented on November II, 1942 on 

Manhattan at Midnight, broadcast over the 

it Blue network, Wednesday at 8:30 P.M., EWT. 



the burden was too much for he? 
strength. She was left alone, penni- 
less, with an infant daughter to raise. 

She did it by becoming a seamstress. 
People in that little town tried to be 
kind; they proffered work and sym- 
pathy; they tried to "get Jane Malone 
out of herself." But they failed. As 
time went on, mother closed herself up 
more and more with her grief. She 
rejected her friends; she sought no 
pleasure. She only worked, and 
thought of the past and what might 
have been and wasn't. That's the way 
I remember her — sewing, always sew- 
ing, a silent woman, old before 
her time. 

She never treated me like a child. 
I was her only confidante, and to me 
she poured out her grief. "Wars are 
nothing but useless murder," she told 
me. "People like us have no protec- 
tion from those who make them for 
their own greedy purposes. They killed 
your father without even a trace. 
They killed other children's fathers. 
And all for nothing." 



It was talk that filled my mind 
with fear and horror. I know now that 
my mother's frail spirit wasn't equal 
to her tragedy, and my heart weeps 
for her. But then all I knew was that 
I was lonely. 

Mother died when I was ten. Died, 
I believe, because she could no longer 
bear to live. 

I was sent to the home of a distant 
cousin in the southern part of the 
state, a shy, frightened child. And 
gradually, under the influence of a 
normal home and the companionship 
of other children, I outgrew my 
fears. I was happy. I grew up 
forgetting (Continued on page 56) 2 i 



, 




22 



IT had been a beautiful evening. We 
had danced in the open-air Lake- 
wood pavilion under a round sum- 
mer moon; we had gone afterward to 
the roadside stand where all of my 
cousin Rosalie's crowd went for a snack 
on their way home; we'd eaten waffles 
and crisp little sausages while half 
the young people of Hampton stopped 
at our table to talk to Rosalie and 
to our escorts, Bob Travis and Roy 
Price. We drove back .slowly, around 
a silver lake and down roads paved 
with moonlight. When we reached 
home — Rosalie's home, which was also 
mine for as long as I visited her — I saw 
the light kiss Roy gave Rosalie as he 
left her at the door, the quick little hug, 
and the grin full of pride and affection. 

"I had a swell time, sweet," he said. 
"Do I see you next week, or do I have 
to fight for a date?" 

Bob Travis shook my hand formally. 
"It was very nice meeting you, Miss 
Matthews," he said. "I hope I can see 
you again sometime — " 

I tried to smile, to thank him and to 
say that I'd enjoyed myself. See you 
again sometime. I'd heard those words 
before, often. And always sometime 
meant — never. 

The boys left, and as we let our- 
selves into the house, Rosalie smiled 
brightly at me, too brightly. "Did you 
have a good time, Janie?" 

"Lovely," I lied, and ran up the stairs 
to my room before the crowding tears 
spilled over into my voice. I should 
have had a lovely time. The evening, 
my escort, were more than any girl 
could reasonably ask. 

And yet I had been miserable. I 
couldn't join in the conversation as 
we'd sat under the little awninged 
tables at the pavilion. Rosalie and 
Roy and Bob had lived in Hampton all 
of their lives, and they talked about 
people and events in which I had no 
part. When they tried to draw me out, 
when Bob asked me about myself and 
my home town of Wilmont, I could 
think of nothing worth telling; lighter 
phrases stuck in my throat; I answered 
briefly, diffidently, and was relieved 




when they went back to discussing 
their own affairs. When we danced, I 
was so afraid of not being able to fol- 
low that I couldn't relax; I held myself 
stiffly and concentrated so hard on the 
movements of my feet that I couldn't 
hear the music and was more often out 
of step than in time. 

I had had a wretched evening. Still, 
it was no worse than other evenings 
I'd spent with Rosalie and her friends 
in the week I'd been in Hampton, no 
more wretched than evenings I'd spent 
back in Wilmont, or in other cities, for 
that matter. 

It was the kind of time I'd had all of 
my nineteen years, whether I was with 
a crowd or with only one or two others, 
even when I was with my own family. 
It was the penalty I paid for one of the 
most intense kinds of selfishness — shy- 
ness — a selfishness I recognized and yet, 
somehow, could not overcome. I knew 
what was wrong with me, knew — and 
was made more unhappy by knowing — 
that it distressed the people around 
me, and I had come to accept it as an 
unfortunate but unalterable fact about 
myself, as evident and as much a part 
of me as that my hair was brown and 
my eyes blue. 

My mother had tried to help me ever 
since I could remember. There was a 
sunny Saturday morning in spring, 
years ago, when I lingered in the house, 
looking enviously out at a group of 




f She knew what to say, what 
to do, but always her shy- 
ness held her back — until 
love came along. Then life 
had a surprise in store, not 
only for Janie but for Jeff 



little girls playing jacks on the walk of 
the house next door. We had just 
moved into a new town, and our house 
had been picked especially for my en- 
joyment — it had a big back yard, with 
swings and a teeter-totter. I remember 
mother coming into the room and 
standing behind me. "Aren't those 
your schoolmates, Janie? Why don't 
you ask them over to play on your 
swings?" 

"They don't want to swing," I mum- 
bled. "They're playing jacks." 

"Then why don't you go out and play 
with them?" 

I stared dumbly at her. Mother's 
suggestion was so matter-of-fact that I 
couldn't explain to her that I hadn't 
been invited to play with them, that I 
didn't know how to go about inviting 
myself, and that I dared not risk the 
humiliation of being ignored if I went 
out and stood on the front lawn, wait- 
ing to be asked. I did exactly what I 
did years later at Rosalie's — I ran up to 
my own room and cried out my loneli- 
ness, while mother's distressed voice 
followed me. "Janie, I don't know 
what's wrong with you. Your home is 
just as nice as those girls' homes; your 
clothes are just as good as theirs, and 
you get just as good marks at school 
I don't understand why you don't be- 
long—" 

I never did belong, not all through 
my school years, not to any of the 



groups I met at schools or at churches 
or at the dancing class mother sent me 
to. When I was graduated from high 
school in Wilmont and went to work in 
an office, I did exactly that — I worked. 
I did not belong to the group of girls 
who ate lunch together and exchanged 
gifts on birthdays and met at each 
other's homes for bridge one night out 
of the week. 

My mother, who had been disturbed 
enough about my lack of popularity 
when I was little, became openly des- 
perate as I grew older. I saw the 
desperation in her eyes each time a 
man passed me by for a plainer but 
more vivacious girl, each time she 
heard of a dance to which I had not 
received an invitation, each time she 
arranged a party for me and then had 
to carry the burden of keeping the 
guests amused and entertained herself. 
She even cried over me, and never, 
although we weren't unusually for- 
tunate and had our share of troubles 
with money and illness and the depres- 
sion years, did I see her cry over any- 
thing else. 

"Janie, darling, if you'd only try to 
get along with people. If you'd only 
realize how difficult you make things 
for others — " 

I did try, and the results frightened 
me, drove me deeper into myself. I 
couldn't catch the spirit of a group, 
couldn't slide my own words into the 
flow of conversation. When I tried to 
be funny, my humor fell flat; when I 
meant to be serious, other people were 
joking. 

I understood mother's anxiety over 
me. She'd had a lot of friends and a 
great many beaux when she'd been 
young, and her one ambition was for 
me to enjoy a little of the popularity 
she'd known. I knew what she was 
most afraid of— that I would go all of 
my life friendless and not knowing 
how to be friendly, unloved and not 
daring to love. I think that from the 
very beginning I had sensed her fear, 
and that it had made me more uncer- 
tain of myself. It was always present, 
behind every word she ever spoke to 



23 




IT had been a beautiful evening. We 
had danced in the open-air Lake- 
wood pavilion under a round sum- 
mer moon; we had gone afterward to 
the roadside stand where all of my 
cousin Rosalie's crowd went for a snack 
on their way home; we'd eaten waffles 
and crisp little sausages while half 
the young people of Hampton stopped 
at out table to talk to Rosalie and 
to our escorts, Bob Travis and Roy 
Price. We drove back .slowly, around 
a silver lake and down roads paved 
with moonlight. When we reached 
home — Rosalie's home, which was also 
mine for as long as I visited her— I saw 
the Hunt kiss Roy gave Rosalie as he 
left her at the door, the quick little hug, 
and the grin full of pride and affection. 
"I had a swell time, sweet," he said. 
"Do I see you next week, or do I have 
to I'u'.hl for a date?" 

Bob Travis shook my hand formally. 
"It was very nice meeting you, Miss 
Matthews," he said. "I hope I can see 
yon again sometime — " 

I tried to smile, to thank him and to 
say that I'd enjoyed myself. See you 
again sometime. I'd heard those words 
before, often. And always sometime 
meant- never. 

The boys left, and as we let our- 
selves into the house, Rosalie smiled 
brightly at me, too brightly. "Did you 
hive a good time, Janie?" 

"Lovely," 1 lied, and ran up the stairs 
to my room before the crowding tears 
spilled over into my voice. I should 
have had a lovely time. The evening, 
my escort, were more than any girl 
lid reasonably ask. 

And yet I had been miserable. I 
couldn't join in the conversation as 
we'd sat under the little awninged 
tables at the pavilion. Rosalie and 
Roy and Bob had lived in Hampton all 
of their lives, and they talked about 
people and events in which I had no 
part. When they died to draw me out, 
when Bob asked me about myself and 
my home town of Wilmont, I could 
think of nothing worth telling; lighter 
phrases stuck in my throat; I answered 
briefly, diffidently, and was relieved 



* 




when they went back to discussing 
their own affairs. When we danced, I -jJ 
was so afraid of not being able to fol- »X 
low that I couldn't relax; I held myself 
stiffly and concentrated so hard on the 
movements of my feet that I couldn't 
hear the music and was more often out 
of step than in time. 

I had had a wretched evening. Still, 
it was no worse than other evenings 
I'd spent with Rosalie and her friends 
in the week I'd been in Hampton, no 
more wretched than evenings I'd spent 
back in Wilmont, or in other cities, for 
that matter. 

It was the kind of time I'd had all of 
my nineteen years, whether I was with 
a crowd or with only one or two others, 
even when I was with my own family! 
It was the penalty I paid for one of the 
most intense kinds of selfishness— shy- 
ness— a selfishness I recognized and yet 
somehow, could not overcome. I knew 
what was wrong with me, knew— and 
was made more unhappy by knowing— 
that it distressed the people around 
me and I had come to accept it as an 
unfortunate but unalterable fact about 
myself, as evident and as much a part 
of me as that my hair was brown and 
my eyes blue. 

My mother had tried to help me ever 
since I could remember. There was a 
sunny Saturday mornmg '^gSrine 
years ago, when I lingered in the housf ' 
looking enviously out at a group f 



little girls playing jacks on the walk of 
the house next door. We had just 
moved into a new town, and our house 
had been picked especially for my en- 
joyment—it had a big back yard, with 
swings and a teeter-totter. I remember 
mother coming into the room and 
standing behind me. "Aren't those 
your schoolmates, Janie? Why don't 
you ask them over to play on your 
swings?" 

"They don't want to swing," I mum- 
bled. "They're playing jacks." 

"Then why don't you go out and play 
with them?" , 

I stared dumbly at her. Mothers 
suggestion was so matter-of-fact that I 
couldn't explain to her that I hadnt 
been invited to play with them .hat 1 
didn't know how to go about invit mg 
myself, and that I dared not risk .the 
humiliation of being f*™?* 1 ^ 
out and stood on the front lawn, wa it 
ing to be asked. I did exactly what I 
did years later at Rosal.e's-I ran up to 
Sown room and cried o^loneh- 

ness, while mother s distresseu v 
followed me. "Jarue, \*™\J£% 
what's wrong with y™- J™™™^ 
just as nice as those girls home a > 
clothes are just as ; good as then^ 
ffi^eXdXlou don't be- 

'Tnlver did belongs - *>> 
my school years, not t. 



She fenett) what to say, what 
to do, but always her shy- 
ness held her hark until 
love canw along. Then life 
hud a surprise in store, not 
only for Janie hut for Jeff 



groups I met at schools or at churches 
or at the dancing class mother sent me 
to. When I was graduated from high 
school in Wilmont and went to work in 
an office, I did exactly that — I worked. 
I did not belong to the group of girls 
who ate lunch together and exchanged 
gifts on birthdays and met at each 
other's homes for bridge one night out 
of the week. 

My mother, who had been disturbed 
enough about my lack of popularity 
when I was little, became openly des- 
perate as I grew older. I saw the 
desperation in her eyes each time a 
man passed me by for a plainer but 
more vivacious girl, each time she 
heard of a dance to which I had not 
received an invitation, each time she 
arranged a party for me and then had 
to carry the burden of keeping the 
guests amused and entertained herself. 
She even cried over me, and never, 
although we weren't unusually for- 
tunate and had our share of troubles 
with money and illness and the depres- 
sion years, did I see her cry over any- 
thing else. 

"Janie, darling, if you'd only try to 
get along with people. If you'd only 
realize how difficult you make things 
for others — " 

I did try, and the results frightened 
me, drove me deeper into myself. I 
couldn't catch the spirit of a group, 
couldn't slide my own words into the 
flow of conversation. When I tried to 
be funny, my humor fell flat; when I 
meant to be serious, other people were 
joking. 

I understood mother's anxiety over 
me. She'd had a lot of friends and a 
great many beaux when she'd been 
young, and her one ambition was for 
me to enjoy a little of the popularity 
she'd known. I knew what she was 
most afraid of— that I would go all of 
my life friendless and not knowing 
how to be friendly, unloved and not 
daring to love. I think that from the 
very beginning I had sensed her fear, 
and that it had made me more uncer- 
tain of myself. It was always present, 
behind every word she ever spoke to 



23 



me. Oh, mother tried so hard. 

"Janie, you'll have to get your clothes 
together so I can lengthen them. The 
way you outgrow your dresses, I should 
think you'd outgrow your shyness, 
too — " 

I might have outgrown it, might have, 
gradually, found friends who were 
more like me than my mother was, 
whom I might have, talked to and who 
might have helped me to break through 
the wall which shut me off from the 
rest of the world. But we moved too 
often. Father's business took him all 
around the country, to a dozen differ- 
ent cities in as many years, and mother 
and I went with him. Our longest stay 
was in Wilmont, and we were there 
just long enough for me to finish high 
school and to work for a little over a 
year. It was about leaving Wilmont 
that sent me to visit my cousin, Rosalie 
Webb, in Hampton. 

~\jl OVING, having to go to a new 
school, to meet new people, had 
always terrified me, but this time there 
was a new problem involved. I had a 
job, and, although I was by no means 
on intimate terms with my fellow 
workers, I at least knew them well 
enough to exchange a few words with 
them without fear of being snubbed. 
If I went with my parents, I would 
have to find another job and learn to 
know a whole new set of co-workers. 
If I remained in Wilmont, I would have 
to live with strangers in a girls' club 
or a boarding house. 

Rosalie's invitation to visit her for a 
few weeks saved me from making a 
decision. I didn't even have to give up 
my job in order to accept — our firm 
was being reorganized for the produc- 
tion of war materials, and I was given 
a month's leave of absence. And my 
mother was pleased at the thought of 
my staying with Rosalie. She knew 
that Rosalie had a great many friends, 
that she entertained and was enter- 
tained a great deal, and she hoped 
against hope that I would absorb some 
of Rosalie's popularity. I hoped so too, 
secretly, unreasonably thinking that 
perhaps someone else might be able to 
do for me what I couldn't do for my- 
self. 

But from the day I arrived in Hamp- 



"Shy Girl" was suggested by a true case 
history, presented on A. L. Alexander's 
Mediation Board, the great human interest 
program on Mutual, Mondays at 9:30P.M. 




ton until the night a week later, when 
I went out with Rosalie and Roy and 
Bob, the only difference between my 
cousin's house and my own home was 
that mother wasn't there to be unhappy 
over me. I cried that night, knowing I 
had failed and that I would go on fail- 
ing. I cried a long time; it was dawn 
when I went to sleep, and I awoke at 
noon with swollen eyes and a dull, 
pounding headache. I was ashamed to 
go down to lunch, but I'd have been 
more embarrassed by remaining up- 
stairs — Aunt Ethel and Rosalie would 
have thought I was ill, and would have 
insisted upon waiting on me and fuss- 
ing over me. 

Aunt Ethel looked sympathetically at 
my flushed face, my reddened eyes. 
"Sick headache, Janie?" she asked. "You 
don't seem as bright as usual — " 

I seized the excuse she offered. "My 
head does ache a little," I admitted. 

"But it can't!" Rosalie cried. "We're 
going to Alice's for bridge. We're sup- 
posed, to be there at two — " 

"Oh, no!" I exclaimed involuntarily, 
and Aunt Ethel broke in, "Now, Rosalie, 
don't insist. If Janie doesn't feel well, 
she doesn't have to go. It's more im- 
portant for her to get well than for you 
to have an even number at bridge." 

Rosalie did insist, and as I refused 
firmly and finally, I saw a look in her 
eyes, quickly concealed but unmistak- 
able, of relief. She was relieved to be 
free for at least one afternoon of the 
trouble of being gay and interesting for 
both of us, of apologizing, however 
silently, for me to her friends. I wasn't 
surprised. I had been expecting her to 
get tired of trying to fit me into her 
crowd, but as long as I could pretend to 
be having a good time, that I was fitting 
in, the pretense gave me an excuse to 
stay on. Now I could no longer pre- 
tend, even to myself. 

I would have to go home. I would 
have to admit to my mother that I had 
failed at Rosalie's just as I'd always 
failed. Or I would have to go back to 
Wilmont to live with strangers and to 
work I couldn't enjoy because I was no 
more than an automaton to the people 
I worked with. 

After lunch I went up to my room, 
drew the shades, and stretched face 
down on the bed, feeling the pillow 
cool on my cheek, wanting to stay there 
in the darkness, wanting never again 
to have to face light and the people 
who made me as uncomfortable as I 
made them. I would have given up 
then, if there had been a way. But 
when your troubles are with yourself, 
there is no way of surrendering. You 
can admit them, you can even admit 
that you no longer have the will to 
struggle against them, but if you are 
going to live at all, you will go on try- 
ing, in spite of yourself, to fight them. 

It was some spark of that will that 
made the quiet of the house unbearable 
that afternoon, that made me get up 
and bathe my eyes and comb my hair 
and powder my face. Rosalie had gone 
to her bridge club, and Aunt Ethel was 
shopping. No one questioned me as I 
left the house. I felt better as I walked 
along the sunny streets to the park in 
the center of Hampton. The fresh air 



took some of the swelling from my eye- 
lids, and the bright colors around me — 
the green of the park, the blue of the 
sky and the matching blue of my own 
freshly laundered dress, the bits of 
rainbow colors which darted across the 
grass as children played — cheered me a 
little. I lingered to watch the children, 
not really seeing them at first, but 
gradually, as they chased a ball back 
and forth, following the pattern of 
their movements. 

A little girl in a yellow dress missed 
the ball, and it came bounding out to 
the sidewalk toward me. Involuntarily 
I bent to pick it up, and collided with 
a stooping figure in khaki. He reached 
for the ball; I caught it, straightened, 
and the soldier rose as quickly. 

"I'm sorry — " we both began, and 
stopped. My flush of embarrassment 
at my awkwardness, at the lock of hair 
which had slipped a pin and hung down 
beside my eye, faded when I saw that 
he was as discomfited as I. 

He was bright red; his hair had be- 
come mussed as he'd snatched off his 
cap, and it stood peaked, a bright blond, 
if slightly ruffled, crest. He put up a 
large, brown, strong-looking hand, 
smoothed down the crest, replaced his 
cap nervously. "I — did I hurt you, 
Miss?" 

"Oh, no. It was my fault anyway — " 
That was all there was to say, really, 
but I wasn't capable of smiling lightly, 
forgivingly, as Rosalie would have, and 
of going my way. Instead, I held out 
the ball. "I — is it your ball?" 

Of course I knew it wasn't his ball, 
and he knew very well I knew it. I'd 
made the same sort of stupid speech 
which had so often brought my mother 
to tears over me. 

Then it was his turn to regain com- 
posure. He looked at the little sphere 
of red rubber — it would have been lost 
in his palm — and at me. Slowly, he 
began to grin, an infectious grin that 
showed his teeth white in his tanned 
face, turned his eyes into bright blue 
half-moons. "Oh, no, Miss. I believe 
it belongs to the children." 

I DID go on then, but not gracefully. 
*- I nodded jerkily, stepped past him, 
giving the ball back to the children. 
As I went down the walk, trying not to 
hurry, I had the feeling that he was 
still standing looking after me, and — 
probably — still grinning. 

That night I didn't tell Rosalie, as I 
had planned, that I would have to go 
home very shortly. I kept thinking 
about the soldier in the park, remem- 
bering my own stupidity, and telling 
myself that whatever I'd said didn't 
matter because, of course, I would 
never see him again. I went to the 
movies with Rosalie and Aunt Ethel — 
a tacit admission on Rosalie's part that 
she'd given up trying to get me dates — 
and saw little of the picture for the 
recollection of a tall, awkward young 
man with blue eyes that looked like 
crescents when he smiled. And I 
couldn't forget the way he looked at 
me, as if — well as if I were funny, but 
in an endearing way, as a kitten or a 
puppy is funny. 

I suppose, if I had actually believed 



that he'd be in the park the next after- 
noon, I wouldn't have dared to go 
there. My mind told me that what 
had happened had been the most trivial 
of incidents, and that there was no 
reason to expect him to be at the same 
place a second time. I told myself 
that I wasn't going deliberately to look 
for him, but that the memory of him 
was pleasant, and that being where 
he'd been would make the memory 
more vivid. My heart and my imagina- 
tion, however, pictured a meeting and 
carried on a whole conversation with 
him, a conversation in which I was gay 
and fascinating, and he charming and 
polished — and devoted. 

And then, as I entered the park, I re- 
membered something else. Something 
that, in my new, strange light-hearted- 
ness I hadn't even considered. This 
man was a soldier. Soldiers aren't like 
ordinary people. He was here yester- 
day, but today he might be on his way 
to the other side of the country. I tried 
to tell myself that it didn't matter, that 
I didn't really think I was going to see 
him anyway, but it did matter. Maybe 
he was on leave. Maybe he was sta- 
tioned at a camp nearby. Maybe . . . 

I was so deep in my day dreaming 
that I didn't recognize him when I first 
saw him, sitting a little apart from the 
other people, cracking peanuts out of 
a bag in his lap and tossing them to 
the squirrels. And then, when I did 
recognize him, a little shock went 
through me, sent the blood beating in 
my throat and my skin tingling, and I 
wanted to turn and run. But my legs 
carried me forward, and as I drew 
opposite him, my imaginary conversa- 
tion came to my rescue. I nodded and 
half-smiled, as Rosalie might have 
done, and my murmured, indistinct 
greeting was Rosalie's at her polite and 
most distant best. 

I passed him, feeling proud of my- 
self, feeling that I'd made up for my 
gawkiness of the day before — until the 
walk turned, and I had a last glimpse 
of him staring after me, looking the 
way I knew I'd looked so many times — 
hurt and misunderstood, and terribly 
lonely. Of course he must be lonely — 
I realized it suddenly — no young man 
spent his free time by choice alone in a 
public park, feeding squirrels and 
watching children play. The certainty 
of his loneliness gave me confidence; I 
promised myself that when I saw him 
the next day I. would speak to him 
cordially and naturally. 

I was beginning to feel that a cir- 
cumstance bigger than I had sent the 
rubber ball bounding into my path the 
day before, had given me the revealing 
glimpse of him from the turn of the 
walk. I was so sure that t would see 
him again that that evening, when 
Rosalie proposed a shopping trip for 
the next day, I refused, saying that I 
was going to the library to do some 
research reading my firm had requested 
of me while I (Continued on page 70) 



Our lips met in a kiss 
that was more than a 
Kiss, it was a pledge oi 
a deep bond between us. 



X i 




From a Case Heard 



on A. L. Alexander's Mediation Board 



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I'VE read in stories how silent a house 
seems when someone in it has just 
died. Probably, in an ordinary kind 
of house, that's true. But the big place 
on Sacramento Street was no more 
silent after Mother died than it had 
been before. 

She'd been ill for so long, poor Moth- 
er, it was really a release for her when 
she died. That's the way I thought of it 
at first, not realizing that it was a release 
for me too. Or perhaps I didn't want to 
realize it. I was afraid to. When you 
have been in prison all your life, or at 
any rate all of it since you were a very 
small child, the world outside is a 
strange and terrifying place, full of 
traps and unexpected dangers. Only 
your prison seems safe. 

"Survived by one daughter, Miss 
Florence Rollburn, of this city." That 
was the way the San Francisco Chroni- 
cle, in the story it published the day 
after Mother died, referred to me. The 
reporter couldn't have known how very 
apt his description was. For I was 
Therese Rollburn's daughter, and that 
was all. Being her daughter was my 
profession, my only distinguishing 
characteristic, my life. 

Once that gloomy old house on Sac- 
ramento Street had been gay enough, 
blazing with light and opening its doors 
to all the rich and famous people of the 
city. We had been rich, too — Father 



For eleven long years life had passed her by. But now, in th\ 



and Mother and I. Then, when I was 
ten, all this ended. I didn't know why. 
I only knew that Father was dead, and 
the shades were pulled over the tall 
windows, and for a few days solemn- 
looking men came and went, and after 
that no one ever came at all. We kept 
one servant, old Martha, and she did 
everything, cooking and cleaning and 
serving the meals and taking me to 
school in the mornings and bringing me 
home in the afternoons. 

It was not until I was sixteen, and 
Mother was in her bed with the illness 
from which she never recovered, that I 
learned the full story. It was common 
enough. Father's wealth had come 
from worthless mining stocks, and when 
his dishonesty was discovered he had 
not died; he had shot himself. 

Eleven years, from the time I was 
sixteen until I was twenty-seven, I 
hardly left the house, hardly saw any- 
one except Martha, and after she died, 
Dr. Chadwick. Mother would receive 
no company, and she wanted me always 
at her side. She was selfish, but to me, 
because I loved and pitied her, that 
selfishness was something normal and 
expected. Once she had been a great 
beauty; now she was ill and old, and 



she could not bear to have anyone but 
me and the doctor and her lawyer see 
how that beauty had vanished. 

In any event, we could not have 
afforded a nurse. I knew we were 
poor, but I did not know how poor 
until the day of the funeral, when Dr. 
Chadwick and Mr. Elverson, Mother's 
lawyer, came back to the house with 
me. 

I felt — empty, is the only word to 
describe it. I'd cried, a little but not 
much because I had expected it for so 
long, when Mother died with her hand 
in mine. Now all the tears were gone. 
I kept hearing the minister's words: 
"I am the resurrection and the life . . ." 

Mother had gone on, gladly, to some- 
thing else, some newer and more won- 
derful life. And I must go on, too. 
But where? Where, when there was 
no road to follow and no horizon beck* 
oning? 

I listened to what Mr. Elverson was 
saying, but it didn't have much mean- 
ing. So many debts, so many assets . . . 
It was all dry and sort of crackly, like 
Mr. Elverson's voice and his wrinkled 
skin. I had always been a little afraid 
of Mr. Elverson. I couldn't remember 
when he hadn't seemed old and with- 



26 



A Theater of Today Drama 




weeks, Florence learned the meaning of a new life and love 



ired-up. On the other hand, Dr. Chad, 
I called him, had always seemed 
foung. He had, in fact, been very 
foung indeed when he began attending 
lother, and now was only in his mid- 
lirties. He was sturdy and brisk, with 
no-nonsense way about him that 
Juld change in a second to good-na- 
tured, easy laughter. 

This afternoon he finally cut into Mr. 

Clverson's bumbling. "So it boils down 

this, doesn't it?" he asked. "The 

bts just about cancel the value of the 

louse?" 

Mr. Elverson looked relieved to have 

. put so plainly. "At the present mar- 

cet, yes," he agreed. 

It was as if, I thought, having used 
jp all the resources she could draw 
ipon, Mother had been too weary and 
iiscouraged to go on living. 

"So, my child," Mr. Elverson said to 
le, "I think we must put our heads to- 
gether and make some plans for your 
future. Have you thought of anything 
fou'd like to do?" 
I shook my head. How could I have 
lought of anything — I, who had no 
raining, not even any knowledge of 
le world outside these four walls? 
Mr. Elverson looked baffled and un- 



happy, but Chad said, "Florence is still 
upset, naturally. "Why don't we wait a 
couple of days? Then we'll all be able 
to think more clearly." 

"Perhaps that's best," Mr. Elverson 
said in obvious relief, and got up to go. 
Chad said he'd stay a while, if I didn't 
mind. 

He came back into the living room 
after seeing Mr. Elverson out. 

"Now then," he said cheerfully, "I've 
got an idea. Let me take you out some- 
where to dinner — I know a very quiet 
place, where the food's perfect — and 
then after that I think you ought to go 
to a hotel. You shouldn't stay all alone 
in this house, you know." 

I shrank back into my chair. I'd 
known it would come soon, the time 
when I must meet strangers, speak to 
them — but not this soon! "Oh, no," I 
said. "I — I can't go to a hotel. I'd be 
frightened. Really, Chad, I'll be all 
right here, and much happier." 

He said doubtfully, "Well— all right. 
But at least you'll come out with me 
now for a bite to eat?" 

"Yes, I'll do that — if you're sure you 
know a place where there won't Be a 
lot of people," I agreed. 

"There won't be," he promised, and 



kept his promise. We ate in a little 
house on Pacific Street, in a room 
redolent of garlic and olive-oil and 
herbs, where a fat and smiling woman 
was the only attendant and we were 
the only diners. I could tell him truth- 
fully, when dinner was over, that I did 
feel better. 

"Of course you do," Chad said. "I 
know how you feel, Florence, and it's 
perfectly natural. You've been living 
in a little world of your own. It's hard 
to step into the real world, overnight." 
But he said it in a way that sounded as 
if he didn't really think it should be 
very hard. "For your own sake, though," 
he added, "you must try.!' 

"I know, Chad. And I will try." 

He leaned toward me across the table. 
Very seriously, he said, "I think I know 
a way that will make it easier for you. 
If you were Mrs. Byron Chadwick . . ." 

These weren't words I was hearing 
with my actual ears — they were only 
words I was reading in a book, and 
they had nothing to do with me. I'd 
never thought of Chad as anything but 
a good friend — and it was like a friend, 
not a lover, that he'd said this. So 
gravely, so matter-of-factly ... as if 
he'd been suggesting that I take a tonic 
for my nerves. 

Seeing my bewilderment, he went 
on, "Oh, I know I ought to wait to ask 
you, or perhaps I should have asked 



27 




I'VE read in stories how silent a house 
seems when someone in it has just 
died. Probably, in an ordinary kind 
of house, that's true. But the big place 
on Sacramento Street was no more 
silent after Mother died than it had 
been before. 

She'd been ill for so long, poor Moth- 
er, it was really a release for her when 
she died. That's the way I thought of it 
at first, not realizing that it was a release 
for me too. Or perhaps I didn't want to 
realize it. I was afraid to. When you 
have been in prison all your life, or at 
any rate all of it since you were a very 
small child, the world outside is a 
strange and terrifying place, full of 
traps and unexpected dangers. Only 
your prison seems safe. 

"Survived by one daughter, Miss 
Florence Rollburn, of this city." That 
was the way the San Francisco Chroni- 
cle, in the story it published the day 
after Mother died, referred to me. The 
reporter couldn't have known how very 
apt his description was. For I was 
Therese Rollburn's daughter, and that 
was all. Being her daughter was my 
profession, my only distinguishing 
characteristic, my life. 

Once that gloomy old house on Sac- 
ramento Street had been gay enough 
blazing with light and opening its doors 
to all the rich and famous people of the 
city. We had been rich, too— Father 



For eleven long years life had passed her by. But now, in thr m weeks, Florence learned the meaning of a new life and love 



and Mother and I. Then, when I was 
ten, all this ended. I didn't know why. 
I only knew that Father was dead, and 
the shades were pulled over the tall 
windows, and for a few days solemn- 
looking men came and went, and after 
that no one ever came at all. We kept 
one servant, old Martha, and she did 
everything, cooking and cleaning and 
serving the meals and taking me to 
school in the mornings and bringing me 
home in the afternoons. 

It was not until I was sixteen, and 
Mother was in her bed with the illness 
trom which she never recovered that I 
learned the full story. It was common 
enough. Father's wealth had come 
from worthless mining stocks, and when 
his dishonesty was discovered he had 
not died; he had shot himself 

Eleven years, from the time I was 
sixteen until I was twenty-seven I 
hardly left the house, hardly saj any- 
one except Martha, and after she Sted, 
Di. Chadwick. Mother would receive 
no company, and she wanted me alwavs 
at her side. She was selfish, but to me 
J£T l l0Ved and P^ied her thai 

xpected S Znl 'T^** ™ ^ 
expected. Once she had been a eroM 

beauty; now she was Ul arXoM, aid 

"heater of Today D 



she could not bear to have anyone but 
me and the doctor and her lawyer see 
how that beauty had vanished. 

In any event, we could not have 
afforded a nurse. I knew we were 
poor, but I did not know how poor 
until the day of the funeral, when Dr. 
Chadwick and Mr. Elverson, Mother's 
lawyer, came back to the house with 
me. 

I felt— empty, is the only word to 
describe it. I'd cried, a little but not 
much because I had expected it for so 
long, when Mother died with her hand 
in mine. Now all the tears were gone. 
I kept hearing the minister's words: 
"I am the resurrection and the life . . •" 

Mother had gone on, gladly, to some- 
thing else, some newer and more won- 
derful life. And I must go on, too. 
But where? Where, when there was 
no road to follow and no horizon beck' 
oning? 

I listened to what Mr. Elverson was 
saying, but it didn't have much mean- 
ing. So many debts, so many assets . • •,; 
It was all dry and sort of crackly, like 
Mr. Elverson's voice and his wrinkled 
skin. I had always been a little afraid 
of Mr. Elverson. I couldn't remember 
when he hadn't seemed old and with- I 

rani a 



« 6 t" UP ;, 0n the other ^nd. Dr. Chad, 
» i called him, had always seemed 

v™? g - ¥ e had ' in fact > been very 
young indeed when he began attending 
S W ' a £ d now w <»s only in his mid- 
'«ies. He was sturdy and brisk, with 
co,,w" n u nsense wa y about him that 
tuZ ° hange in a s eeond to good-na- 
wed, easy laughter. 

ElverLt. te u n ° 0n he fin^y cut into Mr. 
to tK bumb ling. "So it boils down 
debts I*? !™'* it? " he asked. "The 
house?" ° Ut cancel the value of the 

it Put 5!^ rS ° n l00ked relieved to have 
ket ve °.. P i. amiy - " At the Present mar- 
It w • agre6d - 
U P ali a th aS lf ' * thought, having used 
u Pon Moth resource s she could draw 
diseourapln. ad been too weary and 

"So nf v , g0 on livin e- 
me > "I thint '" Mr - Elverson said to 
ge 'her and We , must DUt °ur heads to- 
future iL some Plans for your 
you ' d like to do"" th ° Ught ° f anything 
l ho ught° k f my head - How could I have 
!>ing rmt ything — *■ wh o had no 
>orI d "?„ f e ven any knowledge of 

*• El V e°" tSlde these f o u r walls? 

Son lQ oked baffled and un- 




happy, but Chad said, "Florence is still 
upset, naturally. Why don't we wait a 
couple of days? Then we'll all be able 
to think more clearly." 

"Perhaps that's best," Mr. Elverson 
said in obvious relief, and got up to go. 
Chad said he'd stay a while, if I didn't 
mind. 

He came back into the living room 
after seeing Mr. Elverson out. 

"Now then," he said cheerfully, "I ve 
got an idea. Let me take you out some- 
where to dinner— I know a very quiet 
place, where the food's perfect-and 
then after that I think you ought to go 
to a hotel. You shouldn't stay all alone 
in this house, you know." 

I shrank back into my chair, l a 
known it would come soon, the time 
when I must meet strangers speak to 
them-but not this soon! Oh, no, i 
said. "I-I can't go to a hotel Id be 
frightened. Really, Chad, 111 be all 
right here, and much happier 

He said doubtfully, "Well-al 1 right 
But at least you'll come out with me 
now for a bite to eat? 

™ es, I'll do that-if you're sure you 

know a place where there won t be a 

lot of people," I agreed. . d 

"There won't be," he promised, ano 



kept his promise. We ate in a little 
house on Pacific Street, in a room 
redolent of garlic and olive-oil and 
herbs, where a fat and smiling woman 
was the only attendant and we were 
the only diners. I could tell him truth- 
fully, when dinner was over, that I did 
feel better. 

"Of course you do," Chad said. "I 
know how you feel, Florence, and it's 
perfectly natural. You've been living 
in a little world of your own. It's hard 
to step into the real world, overnight." 
But he said it in a way that sounded as 
if he didn't really think it should be 
very hard. "For your own sake, though," 
he added, "you must try." 

"I know, Chad. And I will try." 
He leaned toward me across the table. 
Very seriously, he said, "I think I know 
a way that will make it easier for you. 
If you were Mrs. Byron Chadwick . . ." 
These weren't words I was hearing 
with my actual ears — they were only 
words I was reading in a book, and 
they had nothing to do with me. I'd 
never thought of Chad as anything but 
a good friend — and it was like a friend, 
not a lover, that he'd said this. So 
gravely, so matter-of-factly ... as if 
he'd been suggesting that I take a tonic 
for my nerves. 

Seeing my bewilderment, he went 
on, "Oh, I know I ought to wait to ask 
you, or perhaps I should have asked 



you sooner. I never did, because as 
your mother's physician I knew she 
could never stand the shock of losing 
you, and she would have considered 
your marriage just that. And I'd wait 
now, only there isn't time. I've applied 
for a commission in the Medical Corps, 
and it ought to come through before 
long. I hope I'll be stationed here in 
San Francisco for a while, but of course 
you never know. The point is, you'd 
be provided for, whatever happened, 
and while we were together I'd do all I 
could to make you very, very happy." 
Beneath the table, the fingers of my 
two hands were twisted together, so 
tightly that they hurt. I struggled 
against a feeling of inadequacy, of 
being beyond my depth. I knew I 
should be happy and grateful, but in- 
stead I wanted to hide from Chad and 
this decision he was so suddenly ask- 
ing me to make. I stammered, "I didn't 
— I never knew you — loved me." 

"Of course I love you," he said with 
the faintest trace of a tolerant smile. 
"I don't pretend to be a very romantic 
sort of person, but if loving means 
wanting to protect and help and cherish 
— why, yes, my dear, I love you very 
much." 

Was that what loving meant? I didn't 
know. I'd never had a chance to find 
out. Perhaps that was the trouble! I 
said, the words rushing to tumble over 
each other: 

"But Chad — I don't know what to 
say. I'm twenty-seven, but I might as 
well be seventeen. I don't know what 
love is — I don't even know what I am. 
I've never lived. I haven't any idea 
how I'll react to other people, other 
situations. You were perfectly right a 
little while ago when you said I must 
try to face the world and adjust myself 
to it. Until I've done that, it wouldn't 
be fair to you to say I'd marry you — " 
"If I'm willing to take the chance — " 
"No! — it isn't just that." If only he'd 
understand that it was hard for me to 
understand myself! If only he weren't 
so calm and sensible, and so sure that 
he knew what was best for me! "Please, 
Chad," I begged, "let me wait a while 
— let me wait until things stop spinning 
around me!" 

And, blessedly, he did hear the raw 
nerves in my voice. "All right," he 
said gently. "Just as you say. We'll 
wait. But try not to make it too long, 
dear." 

Was a man proposing marriage al- 
ways so self-possessed, so ... so almost 
condescending? . . . But then I shamed 
myself for being disloyal. Chad was 

"I Belong To You," is based on an original 
story by Cameron Hawley entitled, "Across 
The Bridge," first heard on Theater of To- 
day, broadcast Saturday noon, over CBS. 





kind and good, and he loved me enough 
to want me with him, enough to want 
to help me! 

A few minutes later, he said, "Now 
I'd better take you home, so you can 
get some rest. I'll call you up tomor- 
row afternoon, and we'll see about find- 
ing you some kind of a job. I think I 
can help." 

But I knew that this, too, was part 
of the task ahead of me. Finding a job 
was the first step in learning to be com- 
plete and unafraid, and even that first 
step had to be taken alone. 

I went down Market Street the next 
morning. It was years since I had been 
on this backbone of San Francisco's 
streets, and like a stranger' I' gaped at 
its hurry and bustle — at the tall build- 
ings on each side, the four street-car 
tracks down the center carrying trol- 
leys whose bells kept up an incessant 
clanging, at the automobiles shooting 
across each intersection, and the people, 
people, people everywhere. The street 
seemed to scream at me in a harsh, 
brassy voice: "Go away! Can't you 
see we're busy? We haven't any time 
for you!" 



And whenever I turned my eyes 
away they were likely to fall on a 
newsstand, where headlines shouted 
war and suffering. 

I'd looked in the paper before I left 
home, and down near the Ferry Build- 
ing I found the address I'd selected. It 
was on the second floor of a granite- 
faced building: "Bay Cities Employ- 
ment Service" lettered in gold on the 
windows fronting the street. . 

A creaky elevator took me up to a 
hall painted in dismal gray, and I went 
timidly down it to the Bay Cities office 
— a medium-sized room divided in two 
by a waist-high counter, with several 
straight-backed chairs on my side of 
the counter and a few desks on the 
other. 

A sharp-featured woman at the 
nearest desk glanced up as I came in, 
but left me waiting several minutes be- 
fore she came over. "Yes?" she said 
shortly. 

"I — I'm looking for a job." Was that 
right? Perhaps I should have said I 
wanted to register, or — 

She reached for a pad and slapped it 
down on the counter. "Yes?" she said 



again, more impatiently. "What kind 
of work?" 

"Why, I—" My lips wouldn't form 
words, they were so stiff, and I moist- 
ened them. "Domestic work, I think; I 
— I haven't had any particular train- 
ing—" 

I had never known that impatience 
and irritation could be so near hatred. 
"Have you any references? We don't 
place people without them." 

"No — I'm sorry — thought — " 

Someone else had come in behind me, 
and her eyes nicked away. "Just a min- 
ute, please," she said crisply, and to 
the new arrival, "Yes?" 

It was a man— a tall man, dressed in 
clothes that looked as out-of-date as 
my own, and with a stained and creased 
hat that he held in nervous fingers. He 
was as uncertain and ill-at-ease as I 
was myself, and I forgot some of my 
own misery in feeling sorry for him. 

"I'm lookin' for a man to help me 



out at my mine," he said in a deep- 
voiced drawl. 

"Laborer or skilled?" the woman 
asked, and he hesitated before an- 
swering. 

Yf? ELL, neither — that is, not exactly. 
"^ What I really need is just somebody 
to keep a fire goin'." He grinned a little 
in embarrassment. He was a homely 
man, I thought — homely in a nice way, 
which is what the word really means, 
I guess. His face was long and thin, 
with a big nose and a wide, humorous 
mouth, and eyes as gray as the Bay on 
a cloudy day. "Had an old fellow 
helpin' me out, but he died o' pneu- 
monia last month." 

The agency woman sniffed. "How 
much does the job pay?" 

"We-ell, it's not worth much more 
than forty a month and keep. I got 
a cabin for him to live in and — " 

The woman interrupted him. "I'm 




sorry," she said haughtily, "but I 
couldn't ask any of our people to accept 
a job like that. There's a war on, you 
know, and labor is very hard to get. 
And we handle only the highest class 
of people." She turned her back on 
him and started toward me. "Wasting 
my time!" she muttered quite audibly. 

For almost the first time in my life, 
anger rose in me. And somehow the 
anger brought with it an intensifying 
of the fear that was already in me, too. 
The fear of facing the city, alone, of 
facing a dozen women like this one in 
a dozen employment agencies with a 
dozen heartless denials that there was 
anything in the world that I could do. 
The fear of myself, really — acknowl- 
edgment of my own weakness, my lack 
of equipment for facing life in a world 
that had gone on its way, passing me by. 

And coupled with that fear was, as I 
say, a good, healthy, righteous anger 
against that world I feared — anger for 
treating me badly, greater anger, at the 
moment, because this simple, kindly- 
looking man was being treated so shab- 
bily. He was so hurt and bewildered, 
standing there with his hat in his hands, 
so completely at the mercy of this 
stupid woman who had already given 
him a taste of her bad temper! 

Then I found out something else 
about myself. Florence Rollburn, who 
had never had the opportunity to do an 
impulsive act in her life was, neverthe- 
less, an impulsive creature. And acting 
on that impulse, prompted by" that 
anger and that fear, I said, in a voice 
that hardly seemed like my own: 

"It doesn't sound like a very hard job. 
Do you think I could do it?" 

He looked at me and his eyes 
widened, seeming to see me for the 
first time. "Why — yes, ma'am, I guess 
you could. It's only keepin' a wood fire 
goin' under a big iron pipe. But— 
gosh, you wouldn't want to work for 
me — away off in the Santa Cruz moun- 
tains, miles from nowhere." 

"I want to work for anyone that has 
a job I can do," I said, defying the 
woman back of the counter, who was 
watching me cynically. I wasn't think- 
ing about what the job might be, or 
where, or of anything except that I 
wanted to prove to her that I could 
find work and that he could find some- 
one to work for him. 

He smiled, and it was like seing the 
sun break through clouds. "Well, 
ma'am, I'd be mighty glad to get you," 
he said. "I was just about on the point 
o' thinkin' I'd have to close the mine 
down. You see, it's really a one-man 
proposition, except for firing the pipe." 

"What kind of a mine is it?" I asked. 

"Mercury, miss. Only a little affair, 
but I like bein' in the mountains, off by 
myself." 

I began to understand now. "You 
mean — there'd be no one at the mine 
except you and me?" 

"That's all," he said, "except Satur- 
days and Sundays. My little boy, 
Petey, comes up then. Rest of the time 
he lives at Farr's, in Pacific Ridge, so 
as to go to school." 

"Oh," I said, a little taken aback. 

"It — it won't make any difference 
about your (Continued on page 76) 



29 



IN LIVING PORTRAITS — 





Meet lovable Mother Schultz* 



her two daughters and your 




*0 



i*h 



. m 



m\ \ 1 







v 



other friends of this favorite 
daytime serial you listen to 
daily at 2:15 P.M., over NBC 



BERTHA SCHULTZ, right, is now 
in Mexico, with her foster sister, 
Marilyn, where she expects to give 
birth to her baby, the child of 
Keith Armour, the Nazi pilot, whom 
she secretly married shortly before 
his arrest. When she found out his 
real identity, Bertha had the mar- 
riage annulled. This was done, how- 
ever, before she knew of the coming 
of her baby. Her parents do not 
know of her trouble, neither does 
John Murray, Marilyn's husband. 
They believe the trip to Mexico was 
occasioned by lung trouble. Bertie 
is slightly bitter towards Marilyn 
who has everything and she won- 
ders if Marilyn would do all that 
she is doing if it were not because 
.Marilyn has always loved Keith. 
(Played by Patricia Dunlap) 



MRS. SCHULTZ is the German- 
born mother of Bertha and the 
foster-mother of Marilyn Larimore. 
She was involved in the espionage 
case centering around Keith Ar- 
mour whom she unwittingly shel- 
tered in her home. A simple, gentle, 
unworldly woman, Ma Schultz is a 
mother in the real sense of the 
word. Of her five children, Marilyn 
is perhaps the dearest to her be- 
cause she has always tried to make 
up to the girl for not being her own 
— even when Marilyn did not know 
anything about her true history. 
(Played by Virginia Payne) 



Lonely Women is written 
by Irna Phillips and Janet Huckins 






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kXi 



MRS. CARTER COLBY is the 
wife of Judge Colby, the well- 
known barrister. The socially 
prominent Mrs. Colby is not 
only a real gentle-woman but 
a fine person. She is a great 
and good friend to John Mur- 
ray and does not approve of 
Marilyn as his wife. In spite 
of this, she likes Marilyn per- 
sonally and has taken an un- 
usual interest in the younger 
woman. Katherine Colby has 
all the charming manners, in- 
telligence and finesse which 
Marilyn wishes were her own. 
(Played by Muriel Bremner) 



m 



Kc 




32 



MR. & MRS. CARTER COLBY are 
very good friends of John Murray. 
Judge Colby is toell educated, suave 
and well loved by everyone. He is 
deeply interested in John's success 
and fears his marriage to Marilyn 
may upset his career as well as his 
social standing. The Colbys are 
even more concerned about John 
since the mysterious visit of a man 
named Michael Gregory, who re- 
vealed that he carries in his wallet 
a picture and newspaper story con- 
cerning Marilyn. This stranger, it's 
been discovered, knows Bertha's 
secret, in spite of Marilyn's well- 
laid plans to protect her sister. 
(Judge Colby played by 
Herb Butterfield) 



• ;•.*■•■■ 8 I "i 



~k : £ 







/ 



I. 



MARILYN MURRAY'S story is 

■ that of a foundling. As a baby, 
1 she was abandoned on ship- 
'• board at the time when the 
' Schultzes were emigrating to 

■ America. The man who was 

■ traveling with her asked Mrs. 
\ Schultz to hold the child for 
'•> a few minutes, but never re- 

■ turned. Years went by and the 
family decided to keep the baby 

1 and bring her up as their own. 

1 Her real name is Maggie Lari- 
more but changed it when she 
left home in order to further her 
career as a professional model. 
(Played by Betty Lou Gerson) 








/ 



MR. & MRS. JOHN MURRAY were 
married onVy a short time when 
Marilyn went to Mexico with Bertha. 
John is a prominent attorney. He is 
a man who is as unusual in his re- 
lationships with people as he is dis- 
tinguished in his profession — a man 
who cares little about the opinion 
of the world, but values human 
beings for themselves. He is indif- 
ferent to the criticism which has 
been leveled at him for marrying 
out of his class. He is devoted to his 
mother-in-law and the entire Schultz 
family, although he is somewhat at 
a loss to understand his wife's atti- 
tude as regards her sister, Bertha. 
(John Murray played by 
William Waterman) 



33 







:***ir 



mi 



34 



For a paralyzed eternity Elinor stared at the 
man near her. She was frightened, but she was so 
shocked she couldn't move. Was this the man to 
whom she so completely gave her heart that night? 



WHEN once you've been hurt — 
really hurt, deeply, so that you 
feel withered inside — you 
change. You change forever. You'll 
never again be the person you were 
before that searing wound to your 
heart. 

• Sometimes you are harder, some- 
times gentler, sometimes more tolerant 
and understanding, sometimes more 
reckless. It all depends upon the kind 
of person you are basically. 

I was one of those who grow hard 
and unyielding. I made up my mind 
I would never be hurt again. Nothing 
— no one — would be able to pierce the 
defenses I built around my jjeart. Won- 
derful, granite-hard defenses they 
were, made of materials like indiffer- 
ence and distrust and cynicism. They 
were proof against any assault. 

So, when Mark Jennings took my 
hand and smiled down at me and said, 
"Alma told the truth when she said 
you were beautiful." I was sure it was 
a pat speech, something he'd tried out 
on other girls and found useful. 

He was a friend of Alma and Tom 
Prentice, and they'd invited us both to 
dinner so we could meet. I'd told Alma 
I didn't care whether I met any men or 
not, but she'd insisted. Grudgingly, I 
admitted to myself that he was hand- 
some enough, with an engaging grin, 
deep-set blue eyes, and brown hair that 
obviously didn't like a comb much. But 
Alma knew — practically everyone in 
town did! — that I'd learned how easily 
a grin could mask a lie, and how blue 
eyes could grow defensively surly when 
it suited their owner's purpose. 

Oh, I still remembered Bill! How 



could I help it, in a town the size of 
Murfreesville, when any day I might 
see him come sauntering into the bank 
where I worked, or driving the streets 
in his green roadster, or going to the 
movies with Tess at his side? And each 
time I saw him, how could I help think- 
ing that it was Tess who had brought 
him the money he was taking out of 
the bank, and the green roadster, and 
even the expensive suit he wore to the 
movies? 

If he'd married me, as we had 
planned, he wouldn't have had these 
things. He'd have been a young lawyer 
on his own, not a partner in Tess' fath- 
er's firm, and we'd have lived in a five- 
room bungalow out on Silver Creek 
Road, and we might have been able to 
afford the movies once a week. Ah, wise 
Bill, to make the sensible choice, even 
if it meant breaking our engagement! 
Wise Bill — unscrupulous, selfish Bill! 

That had all been six years ago. I 
didn't hate him any longer, because in 
order to hate you must be suffering — 
and I was the girl who had made up 
her mind she would never suffer again. 
I cared as little about Bill, one way or 
the other, as I cared about any man — 
including this Mark Jennings that Alma 
and Tom thought was so wonderful. 

And yet — I did enjoy myself that 
evening. Alma's dinner seemed es- 
pecially delicious — perhaps because we 
were all laughing most of the way 
through it, at something Tom or Mark 
had said. Afterwards, we played one of 
those silly word games, and acted like 
children. In spite of myself, I warmed 
toward Mark Jennings. There seemed 
to be a natural, big-hearted friendli- 



!&:v 




" 



ness about him, not at all usual, I 
thought wryly, in anyone so handsome. 

That's why, when he walked home 
with me through the warm summer 
night, it was like waking up to reality 
from a pleasant dream to find that, 
after all, he'd been nice for a purpose. 

"Alma tells me you work for Mr. 
Harrington, at the bank," he said cas- 
ually, and I answered, "Yes, I'm his 
secretary." 

"That's what Alma said." He 
laughed. "You must be 'E. T. W.' " 

"Why — yes," I said, surprised. "E. T. 
W." are my initials — Elinor Townley 
Wheeler— and I put them in the left- 
hand corner of every letter I type for 
Mr. Harrington, who is president of 
the bank. "But how did you know?" 

"Remember typing a letter to M. J. 
Jennings?" he asked. "That's me." 

"M. J. — Oh!" I said. "You must be 
the inventor." I remembered now. 
There had been two letters, both of 
them asking Mr. Harrington for an 
appointment. Mr. Harrington had an- 
swered the first in the usual way: "I 
regret that this bank is unable at the 
present time to interest itself in your 



•re 
km 
"Y 

h 



A Just F i v 



i n e s 



D 



r am a 



lllil 




invention." The second one, as far as 
I knew, he'd ignored. 

"Yes," Mark said a little grimly, "I'm 
the inventor. Mr. Harrington could 
help me. but he won't even talk to me. 
I was wondering — would you mind 
asking him if he could spare just half 
an hour?" 

Well, I thought, this is it. No wonder 
he went out of his way to be charm- 
ing. He wanted something . . . And I 
felt weary and a little sick. 

"You want him to advance you some 
money, I suppose?" I said crisply. 

"That's the idea," he admitted. He 
must have heard the change in my 
voice. 

don't think you quite understand," 






I said. "Bank loans are very carefully 
supervised these days. A bank can't 
just loan out money to anyone it thinks 
is honest. It has to have security. 
That's the law." . 

"I know that," he said in a way that 
somehow made me feel vexedly as if 
I'd been giving a lecture. "I wouldn't 
think of asking him to loan me any of 
the bank's money. But Mr. Harring- 
ton is a rich man, and he's supposed to 
be a patrotic one, too. . . . This thing's 
important. Not to me so much as to the 
whole country. It's a — well, I won't 
get technical, but it's a new method of 
testing parachutes. I think it's fool- 
proof. The only thing is, I need equip- 
ment to develop it, and equipment costs 



money. All I've got now is a small- 
scale model and a notebook full of fig- 
ures proving it would work — on paper." 

"Couldn't you take it to Washing- 
ton?" I asked. 

"Not very well — not until I've tested 
it more, and on a larger scale. Besides, 
you know how long it takes to get at- 
tention there, and I haven't much time. 
My draft board gave me a six-month 
deferment on account of the invention, 
but they wouldn't defer me again. I 
don't want them to." 

It was all very plausible, but I told 
myself I wouldn't be taken in. People 
with inventions that would win the war 
could be found on any street-corner — 
they were always writing to the bank 



35 




For a paralyzed eternity Elinor stared at the 
man near her. She was frightened, but she was so 
shocked she couldn't move. Was this the man to 
whom- she so completely gave her heart that night? 



WHEN once you've been hurt — 
really hurt, deeply, so that you 
feel withered inside — you 
change. You change forever. You'll 
never again be the person you were 
before that searing wound to your 
heart. 

Sometimes you are harder, some- 
times gentler, sometimes more tolerant 
and understanding, sometimes more 
reckless. It all depends upon the kind 
of person you are basically. 

I was one of those who grow hard 
and unyielding. I made up my mind 
1 would never be hurt again. Nothing 
— no one — would be able to pierce the 
defenses I built around my heart. Won- 
derful, granite-hard defenses they 
were, made of materials like indiffer- 
ence and distrust and cynicism. They 
were proof against any assault. 

So, when Mark Jennings took my 
hand and smiled down ai me and said. 
"Alma told the truth when she said 
you were beautiful." I was sure it was 
a pat speech, something he'd tried out 
on other girls and found useful. 

He was a friend of Alma and Tom 
Prentice, and they'd invited us both to 
dinner so we could meet. I'd told Alma 
1 didn't care whether I met any men or 
not. hut she'd insisted. Grudgingly, I 
admitted to myself that he was hand- 
some enough, with an engaging grin. 
iieep-set blue eyes, and brown hair that 
obviously didn't like a comb much. But 
Alma knew — practically everyone in 
town did!— that I'd learned how easily 
a grin could mask a lie. and how blue 
eyes could grow defensively surly when 
it suited their owner's purpose. 

Oh, I still remembered Bill! How 



could I help it, in a town the size of 
Murfreesville, when any day I might 
see him come sauntering into the bank 
where I worked, or driving the streets 
in his green roadster, or going to the 
movies with Tess at his side? And each 
time I saw him, how could I help think- 
ing that it was Tess who had brought 
him the money he was taking out of 
the bank, and the green roadster, and 
even the expensive suit he wore to the 
movies? 

If he'd married me, as we had 
planned, he wouldn't have had these 
things. He'd have been a young lawyer 
on his own, not a partner in Tess' fath- 
er's firm, and we'd have lived in a five- 
room bungalow out on Silver Creek 
Road, and we might have been able to 
afford the movies once a week. Ah, wise 
Bill, to make the sensible choice, even 
if it meant breaking our engagement! 
Wise Bill— unscrupulous, selfish Bill! 
That had all been six years ago. I 
didn't hate him any longer, because in 
order to hate you must be suffering — 
and I was the girl who had made up 
her mind she would never suffer again. 
I cared as little about Bill, one way or 

the other, as I cared about any man 

including this Mark Jennings that Alma 
and Tom thought was so wonderful. 

And yet— I did enjoy myself that 
evening. Alma's dinner seemed es- 
pecially delicious — perhaps because we 
were all laughing most of the way 
through it, at something Tom or Mark 
had said. Afterwards, we played one of 
those silly word games, and acted like 
children. In spite of myself, I warmed 
toward Mark Jennings. There seemed 
to be a natural, big-hearted friendli- 




Just Five Lines Dr 



ness about him, not at all usual, I 
thought wryly, in anyone so handsome* 

That's why, when he walked homfc 
with me through the warm summer 
night, it was like waking up to rea W 
from a pleasant dream to find that, 
after all, he'd been nice for a purpose. 

"Alma tells me you work for Mr. 
Harrington, at the bank," he said cas- 
ually, and I answered, "Yes, I'm his 
secretary." „ 

"That's what Alma said." He 
laughed. "You must be 'E. T. W' " 

"Why — yes," I said, surprised. "E-JJ 
W." are my initials— Elinor Townley 
Wheeler— and I put them in the len- 
hand corner of every letter I type '° 
Mr. Harrington, who is president »_ 
the bank. "But how did you kn ° w ', 

"Remember typing a letter to M- 
Jennings?" he asked. "That's me. 

"M. J.— Oh!" I said. "You must £ 
the inventor." I remembered no* 
There had been two letters, both » 
them asking Mr. Harrington lor 
appointment. Mr. Harrington had w^ 
swered the first in the usual 
regret that this bank is unable at , 
present time to interest itself "' v j 



a m a 



'Mention " tu 

Ik "ew he'H , Second one - as f ar as 

"Yes'" A* 'S noi 'ed. 

? e inventor 1 * "V? a " ttle ^ly. ' Tm 
"Pme bul u Mr - Harrington could 

' *« 'wXw Wont 6Ven talk t0 me - 
^ng him ifu' ng - would y° u ">ind 
^ hou r ,.. he couId spare just half 

Well i tu 
!* We "t out U oV ht ,:. this is «' No wonder 
",' H e wami Way to be cha rm- 
'!, *eary "^ s °™ething ... And I 
* Y o Uw y an and .a little sick. 

-T?' » suppC, 1 . fiance you some 
■» hat 's th» j I s aid crisply. 
^h a ve th U de r . a '' i headmitted y He 
^ hea.d the change in my 

• ">k you quite understand," 



I said. "Bank loans are very carefully 
supervised these days. A bank cant 
just loan out money to anyone it thinks 
is honest. It has to have security. 
That's the law." , 

"I know that," he said in a way that 
somehow made me feel vexedly as i 
I'd been giving a lecture. "I wouldnt 
think of asking him to loan me any of 
the bank's money. But Mr. Hari.nB- 
ton is a rich man, and he's suPP° si £ *» 
be a patrotic one, too. . . . lh« thirds 
important. Not to me so much as to tnc 
whole country. It's a-well, I wont 
get technical, but it's a new methodol 
testing parachutes. I think it s ; fool 
proof The only thing is, I need eq u.p 
ment to develop it, and equipm. 



money. All I've got now is a small- 
model and a notebook full of fig- 
ures proving it would work — on paper." 
"Couldn't you take it to Washing- 
ton?" I asked. 

"Not very well — not until I've 
it more, and on a larger scale. Besides. 
you know how long it takes to get at- 
tention there, and I haven't much time. 
My draft board gave me a six-month 
deferment on account of the invention, 
but they wouldn't defer me again. I 
don't want them to." 

It was all very plausible, but I told 

myself I wouldn't be taken in. People 

with inventions that would win the war 

be found on any street-corner — 

they were always writing to the bank 



35 



for money. And they were usually 
much more interested in lining their 
own pocketbooks than they were in 
winning the war. I didn't think Mark 
Jennings was any different. Besides, 
I resented the way he'd taken advan- 
tage of a chance acquaintanceship. Or 
was it chance? — probably he and the 
Prentices had planned it all. 

"I could speak to Mr. Harrington," 
I said indifferently. "I don't think it 
would do a bit of good, though." 

"I'd be very grateful," he said quiet- 
ly. "All I want is to see him." 

"I'll ask him tomorrow." 

"It's very good of you." I was 
meanly pleased to see that my stiffness 
had embarrassed him. We'd come to 
the front door of my house, where I 
lived with my parents and younger 
brother. There was an awkward 
pause, and then he said abruptly, 
"Couldn't we — go out together tomor- 
row night?— see a movie or something? 
I mean, if you aren't busy?" 

"I'm afraid I will be," I said. 

"Then the next night?" he persisted. 

¥ COULDN'T refuse a second time 

without being obviously rude. And 
anyway, I thought, what difference did 
it make? He meant so little to me that 
it was foolish to be angry at him. "All 
right," I said. "I'd like to." 

"Swell! And — " I was sure he had 
started to say something about the 
appointment with Mr. Harrington, but 
he broke off and substituted: "Good 
night." 

I went up to my room feeling de- 
pressed and unhappy. The evening, 
after having been so pleasant nearly 
all the way through, had left a bad 
taste in my mouth. I'd hurry and get 
to bed; I was tired, that was the trou- 
ble. But after undressing quickly, I 
sat for long minutes at my dressing- 
table, staring at my reflection. I saw 
the smooth oval of my face, the long, 
thick eyelashes, the slightly tilted nose 
— all the features I'd thought I knew so 
well. Tonight, for some reason, I saw 
more: a coldness about the eyes, a dis- 
contented droop to the lips. 

"Elinor, you fool!" I whispered into 
the silence. "What more do you ex- 
pect? Naturally he'd take any oppor- 
tunity that came along to help him 
carry out his plans. Anyway, what's 
so terrible about it, if he does?" 

Quickly, impatiently, I stood up and 
snapped off the light and got into bed. 



ictionized from an original radio 
Jrama entitled "Circumstance,"' by 
Robert Wetiel and Robert Arthur, 
heard on Just Five lines on Mutual. 




Finally, after what seemed forever, 
I went to sleep. 

As I'd promised, I asked Mr. Har- 
rington the next day if he'd consent to 
see Mark Jennings for a few minutes. 
I explained that I'd met him at a 
friend's house and that he seemed in- 
telligent. "Maybe his invention really 
is something," I added. 

Mr. Harrington, a thin, precise man, 
pressed his lips together a little im- 
patiently, but he nodded and told me 
to arrange an appointment. I went 
back to my desk thinking that it was 
the first time I'd ever asked him for a 
favor, and hoping it would be the last. 
Mr. Harrington didn't encourage fa- 
miliarity from his secretary; he was al- 
ways polite and pleasant enough, but 
never friendly. 

All the rest of that day, and all the 
next, I caught -myself wondering how 
Mark would receive the news that I'd 
made his appointment. As if it mat- 
tered! I told myself scornfully. He'd 
probably make a great show of grati- 
tude, and after that I'd never hear from 
him again. 

He called for me at the house at 
seven-thirty, and we walked down- 
town. The restraint that had been be- 
tween us when we parted was still 
there, and it was hard to keep a con- 
versation going. I could feel him won- 
dering if I'd spoken to Mr. Harrington, 
being diffident about asking, so we'd 
gone only a block when I said: 

"Oh — Mr. Harrington says he'll see 
you any time. Would tomorrow after- 
noon be all right?" 

"Would it?" he said eagerly. "If he'd 
said three o'clock in the morning that 
would have been convenient for me!" 

"At two, then," I said. "I'll make a 
note on his calendar." 

"Honestly, it's swell of you to do this 
for me," he said. In spite of myself, 
I noticed that he had the knack of be- 
ing sincerely and quietly grateful. 
"After all," he went on, "I'm practi- 
cally a stranger to you—" 

"Don't mention it," I said, and be- 
cause I was embarrassed and somehow 
angry at both him and myself, I 
sounded even more curt than I meant 
to be. 

"Wait a minute," he said suddenly, 
stopping short. We'd just come to the 
little park where the street I lived on 
entered the business section, and he 
nodded toward one of the iron benches. 
"Let's sit down here a few minutes. 
There's something you and I have to 
get straight." 

I looked at him in amazement and 
— yes, in apprehension too. His voice 
had been edged with anger, and his 
brows were drawn in a level, almost 
continuous line above his eyes. Word- 
lessly, I let him lead the way to one 
of the benches. 

"Is there something wrong about my 
asking you to fix it with your boss so 
he'll give me half an hour of his time?" 
he asked without preamble. "If there 
is, tell me about it. I'd like to know." 

There was a terrifying directness 
about him, but I wouldn't let myself be 
upset. Not meeting his eyes, I asked, 
"What makes you think there is?" 

"You. As soon as I asked, you froze 



up, and you haven't thawed out since. 
What's the idea? Is it a crime?" 

"All right, since you want to know," 
I flung back at him, "I didn't like it." 

"Why not?" 

"I didn't like knowing that Alma 
had introduced us so you could take ad- 
vantage of knowing me — and I didn't 
like the way you did take advantage." 

We were looking at each other now, 
and for an instant I saw fury blazing 
in his eyes. Then he took a deep breath. 

"All right." he said in a controlled 
voice. "You've told me what you 
think. Now I'll tell you something. 
I've worked out something that can 
save the lives of American soldiers. It's 
important. It's so important that in 
order to perfect it I'd be willing to do 
a lot more than what I did to you. A 
lot more than breaking your rules 
about what a gentleman does or doesn't 
do!" 

I listened, and I watched his lips 
biting off each word, and all at once 
I felt ashamed — mean and petty and 
very ashamed. 

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I — I 
didn't think of all that." 

Impulsively, he reached out and laid 
one of his big, square-fingered hands 
over mine. "I'm sorry, too. Particu- 
larly because I wanted you to have a 
good opinion of me. I'll tell you the 
truth. I didn't much like asking you 
to fix me up with Harrington, either, 
once I got to know you. Before, when 
Alma suggested it, it sounded like a 
good idea. Afterwards — well, I felt 
like — like what you said I was. I 
wouldn't have said anything, if it didn't 
mean so much to me to get help on 
the invention." 

I didn't answer. I only turned my 
hand palm upright, and twisted its 
fingers around his, in silent apology. 

"Well!" He straightened up and 
made a sharp little gesture of dismis- 
sal with his other hand, the left one. 
"Let's forget all about it and just have 
a good time tonight?" 

We did forget, and we did have a good 
time. Some way or other, we didn't go 
to the movie after all. We stayed on 
the park bench for a while, and after 
that we went to a drug-store and sat 
for a long time over one ice-cream soda 
each, and I think we talked a lot but I 
can't remember what about. 



I GAVE my heart into his keeping so 
-*• completely, that night, that it didn't 
even occur to me that I had done so 
that the barrier about it had not so 
much fallen as melted away. 

"I'll see you in the bank tomorrow," 
he said when we parted. "Wish me 
luck." 

"Oh, I do!" I breathed. "I do!" 

He came into the bank the next aft-J 
ernoon on the dot of two, a big leather 
briefcase tucked under his arm and a 
tense, determined look mingled wit 
the smile on his lips. A brief, conspiri 
torial glance between us — and then he] 
was gone, into Mr. Harrington's pri 
vate office. 

He was in there only for fifteen min 
utes. When he came out he was dea 
pale, and his fingers made deep dentf 
in the leather (Continued on page 86) 





** 






sIaA 



»_ 




-^ 



A OUNG Frank Sinatra tilted the 

wicker chair against a tree and waited 

for the girl across the street, who sat 

t on her porch steps doing her nails, 

to look his way. Usually it didn't 

II take girls so long. 

"Hello!" Impatient, he bid for her 
attention. She glanced up and then 
looked away. "She gave me the 
brush!" he thought. And, intrigued 
by this new experience and also satis- 
fied she was half smiling, he saun- 
tered across the road. 

"Hello, Beautiful!" he said. "What's 
your name?" 
"Nancy." It was a shy whisper. 
"How's about coming down to the 
i, beach," he suggested. "Having some 

;; t un . . .» 

I have house-work to do," she said. 



"Come down when you get 
through . . ." 

"I usually get down later," she 
admitted. 



By Adele Whitely Fletcher 

It was after four o'clock when he 
saw her on the beach, sitting in the 
shade of the board-walk, reading. "It's 
a wonder," he called, half way over 
to her, "that you wouldn't let a guy 
know you were here." 

Her gentle dark eyes sought the 
noisy girls and boys Frank had left 
behind him. "You were with your 
crowd ..." she said. 

He threw himself beside her on 
the warm sand. "Gee, I'm starved!" 
he announced. 

Quietly she reached in her beach 
bag ior a neatly wrapped package of 
fruit and sandwiches. "I thought you 
might be hungry," she said. 

"You're not only beautiful," he 
declared, "You're wonderful!" He ex- 
amined the sandwich fillings approv- 
ingly and cracked an apple between 
his white teeth. 



One of the girls he had left picked 
up his uke from the sand where he 
had dropped it to accompany a South 
Sea dance she was improvising. "Hey, 
Frank!" she called. "Look! Frank! 
Look!" 

He waved to her to be quiet. "They're 
Indians," he told Nancy. "You're sweet 
and quiet and soft. You're feminine!" 

She smiled, well pleased. 

It was her sister, Julie, flagrant in 
her liking for Frank who invited him 
to dinner. He brought his uke. He 
sang songs. His talk was flavored 
with his seventeen irresponsible years 
and that season's picturesque slang. 

Nancy's family urged him to come 
again as he started home just before 
midnight. Nancy said nothing. But 
her eyes were patient. It was as if 
she knew when Frank reached the 
last step he would turn and say 
specially "S'long Nancy .* . ." 

That Satur- (Continued on page 68) 



rank Sinatra, singing sensation of the year, now starring on the Hit Parade over CBS, 
r ibutes his good fortune to having a wife like Nancy and a baby like Nancy Sandra 



No woman is too young or too old to play her part, 
says radio's famous star, who asks: Are you just wish- 
ing you had a job to perform, or are you doing it? 



r 



38 



THE other day a friend said 
something so startling I haven't 
been able to forget it. Since then, 
it has occurred to me that perhaps 
thousands of intelligent women ail 
over this land of ours may be ex- 
periencing this woman's identical 
reaction. 

It seems she had been sitting by her 
radio one evening listening to the news 
broadcast when the appeal went out 
for all women between certain ages to 
join the WAACS and WAVES and 
SPARS and similar organizations. 

"It came to me as a distinct shock," 
this woman said, "suddenly to find 
myself outside the age limit of service. 
In fact, I felt so useless and unwanted, 
although I'm perfectly strong and will- 
ing, it took the edge off my desire to 
do something. It's an awful feeling, 
you know, to be bluntly told one is too 
old to serve." 

Too old to serve! Just when are 
any of us too old — or too young — to 
serve our country in this its greatest 
crisis? To me there is no limit either 
way from the smallest child to the 
oldest citizen. This war belongs to us, 
it's a part of each one of us and none 
of us can or should want to escape our 
place in its successful completion. In 
fact, every member of society is vitally 
needed in his right- place if we are 
to win. 

For the young, and not so young, 
we have those marvelous organiza- 
tions the WAACS, the WAVES, the 
SPARS and Women Marines. My own 
daughter, Frances, is a lieutenant j. g. 
in the WAVES. When the need for 
women workers arose, Frances gave 
up her career as sculptor to take a 
job in the engineering department of 
the Lockheed defense plant. On the 
way home the car radio told of the 
need and aims of the newly organized 
WAVES and when the broadcast went 
on to say the group was being or- 
ganized at Smith College, Frances' 
alma mater, she knew she had found 
her right place. 

Just as important, I feel, is my daugh- 
ter Jane's work as mother and home- 
maker. It is so necessary for all 
mothers, young or old, to realize how 
very important their work is in keep- 
ing firm and unshakable the very 
foundation of our democracy — the 



home. Well cared for children, in- 
stilled with the spirit of love and 
freedom are the hope of the world. 
And where else can this lesson of 
democracy be taught better than in the 




*4»i) 



As a member of the Woman's 
Ambulance Defense Corps, Irene 
Rich has learned to care for the 
sick and wounded. Here she is 
in uniform, with her dog, Nicky. 



home itself? There are so many small 
war time tasks which can be done in 
the home, and which, when added to- 
gether, make a contribution to the 
war effort which is far from small — 
the little, everyday tasks, like saving 
kitchen fats, doing home canning, 
cleaning out storerooms for. salvage. 
■I feel so strongly about this I advo- 
cate a sort of uniform or badge of 
honor for the wives and mothers of 
America whose work in homekeeping 
is every bit as important as that of 
other branches of war work. 

When the war struck at us so sud- 
denly I was faced, like thousands of 
other women, with the problem of what 
I must do. For believe me there is 
no place in our country for women 
who go on wishing from day to day 
there was something they could do and 
yet do nothing. There can be no place 
for slackers, or whiners or dreamers, 
young or old. Every woman must de- 
cide where best she fits in and then 
pitch in to her job. Or, if she is un- 
decided about her place, consult the 
heads of the various branches of our 
services and let them advise the 
practical thing. 

I was a farmer, living on my fifty 
acres in Canoga Park when war was 
declared. My radio program, Dear 
John, on the Columbia Network, which 
keeps me in Hollywood every Sun 
day, as well as my responsibilities to 
my land and livestock, would not 
permit my leaping off to Washington 
or becoming a part of a woman's mili- 
tary organization that might take me 
away from home as I should have 
liked to. So I turned to things at 
hand. How best could I serve my 
country as a farmer? And then it came 
to me. My home, secluded and far 
enough away from the city to prove 
a haven in time of raids or evacu- 
ation should become a thorough and 
, complete refuge if the need arose. 
I With this in mind, I set out with a 
definite purpose. I joined the Woman's 
Ambulance Defense Corps and thor- 
oughly prepared myself in this work 
Next came the First Aid course, keep- 
ing always in mind the fact that one j 
day I may be faced with the care of 
dozens of people made homeless or 
at least seeking refuge. I learned how 
to deliver a (Continued on page 67) 



: 



» * » < > ; ■■— i 




< 



fe*H 




Here are your favorite people of the Dear John program, Faith Chandler and Niles Novak in the library 
of ttieir charming home in England. As the wife of Niles, who is a British secret agent, Faith is 
helping him in his work with the Spanish underground movement. Her exciting adventures make up the 
episodes of the Dear John series you hear every Sunday at 6:15 P.M., EWT, over the CBS network. 
(Faith Chandler played by Irene Rich — Niles Novak played by Tom Collins) 




THE STORY 

"C'ROM the moment I first laid eyes on 
■*■ Michael Shannon I knew that he was 
the man I loved, the man I would love 
all my life. But Michael didn't feel that 
way about me — he treated me as a pal, 
took me out with him more because he 
was lonely than for any other reason. 
You see, Michael was still in love with 
Julie — beautiful, brilliant Julie whom 
he had married years before and who 
had left him. I think that even when 
Michael proposed to me it was only an 
impulse of the moment prompted once 
again by the loneliness, but I felt that 
given a chance I could make him love 
me. We were married and returned to 
Michael's apartment — the same one in 
which he had lived with Julie. And 
there I found, in the bedroom closet, 
Julie's clothes still hanging there — wait- 
ing for her return. 

MY name is Ann Shannon, now. 
Ann Shannon." 
That had been going over and 
over in my mind, ever since yesterday. 
But I don't think I'd really believed it 
until now — now that Michael had gone 
out and I was all alone in the little 
apartment. Ann Shannon. Mr. and 
Mrs. Michael Shannon. The names sang 
in my heart. 

There are moments in all our lives, 
I guess, when we're hardly aware of 
our happiness, but looking back it seems 
we must have been pretty close to par- 
adise. That day after our wedding 
had moments like that for me. The 
memory of them lingers like a remem- 
bered tune. 

It won't sound like much in the tell- 
ing. Just a girl wandering around a 
crowded, dirty little apartment with a 
dust cloth in her hand, singing a little 
under her breath. But as I walked 
through the rooms that yesterday had 
been Michael's and today were 
Michael's and mine, I knew I was hap- 
pier than I had ever been before. And 
perhaps I knew, too, deep down in my 
heart, that I was happier than I would 
be again for a long time to come. 

I suppose every girl who has married 
the man she loves knows what that 
morning of mine was like. Your heart 
beating swiftly and lightly. Little re- 
membrances from the night — strong 
aims, searching kisses, the ineffable 
wonder of belonging, at last, to some- 
one you love — remembrances that are 
sharp and sweet and make you stand 
still for a moment, living them again. 



atfw 



Now she had what she want- 
ed — Ann was Michael's wife. 
But try as she would, she 
could not erase the shadow 
that marred their happiness 



There's a kind of fear, too, different 
from any other, on that beginning day 
of a marriage. The whole of your life, 
long and a little terrifying because it's 
so new a life, spreads out before you, 
and you wonder if you have the 
patience it takes, the courage it takes, 
the sympathy it takes, to make your 
marriage real. You wonder what the 
things are that will cause anger to flare 
between the two of you, and how you'll 
react when it comes. You wonder what 
words of his will someday hurt you, 
and how you'll face the hurt. Maybe 
you even wonder if love can change to 
hate — but then you laugh at that, be- 
cause that will never happen — not to 
you. 

That's the way I was that first morn- 
ing, wandering around the room in a 
wonderful, heavenly, delicious daze, 
flicking inadequately at the furniture 
with my- dust cloth, thinking thoughts 
that made me feel warm from the top 
of my head to the tips of my toes. And 
after a while a little of the wonder 
wore away, things seemed a bit more 
real — the dirt, the general messiness of 
this place. So I pitched in and went to 
work, and there's no better tonic for 
daydreaming than a good, stiff job of 
work. 

And then I saw what I hadn't seen 
before — evidences of Julie all through 
the apartment. A pair of glasses with 
delicately tinted frames and pear- 
shaped lenses in the top drawer of the 
desk. Several sheets of thick, cream 
colored note paper with an arrogantly- 
lettered JS monogram at the top. A 
book of poetry, with "Love to Julie on 
her birthday" written on the fly leaf. 
And, at last, a picture on the table — a 
picture of a girl with a cool, finely- 
modeled face, a rich, sweet mouth, eyes 
whose warmth made up what her 




straight littl nose, her proud little c 
told of coldness. This was Julie — love- 
ly, lovely Julie, whom I had replaced. 
No, whom I was trying to replace. 

I remembered the clothes in that 
closet then, and felt a desperate hot 
urgency to get rid of them. I didn't 
want Julie's clothes brushing shoulders 
with my dresses, with Michael's suits. 
I marched to. the closet where Michael 
had left those clothes to gather layers 
of dust, left them rather than send 
them to wherever she was, or give 
them away. 

It wasn't going to be a pleasant duty 
but I was determined to get it over 
with. Those clothes of Julie's would 
have to go. If they didn't, they would 
cast their shadow over us as long as 
they remained. 

Then I heard Michael whistling and 
banging on the door outside. I just 
couldn't go to him with Julie's clothes 
in my arms. Hastily I dumped the 
clothes on the bed and went to answer 
the door. Maybe, I thought, I'd better 
speak to him first. It would be easier 
that way. 

He had gone out with a list of gro- 
ceries I needed, and my heart danced 
to him as I saw him standing in the 
doorway. His long, strong arms were 
filled with what he had bought. A 
broom. A mop. A box of scouring 
powder and soap. A bag of groceries. 
And on his face, the impudent, carefree 
grin I loved. 

"Where'll I put this?" he asked. 

I laughed. It wasn't really funny I 
suppose, but he looked so confused. As 
he stood there helplessly, his arms full, 
I kissed him on the ear. Then I took 
the packages from mm and put them 
in our tiny kitchen. 

When I came back to the living room 
he had stopped whistling, and his face 
wore a strange still look. I followed 
the direction of his eyes through the 
door and into the bedroom, and I saw 
what it was. That pile of things I had 
dropped on the bed, Julie's clothes. 

"What are you going to do with that 
stuff?" he asked. His voice was rough 
and angry. There seemed to be a threat 
in it. 

My courage failed me. I wanted to 
tell him then and there that he would, 
have to send those things to Julie's 
parents, or get rid of them somehow. 
But I didn't. - I couldn't mar our first 
day. I'll tell him tomorrow, I thought. 
I can't spoil our happiness now. Not to- 
day. 

"I'm just putting things aside so I 



:hin 



40 



A Stars Over Hollywood Story 







can clean out the closet," I said with all 
the cheerfulness I could muster. 

I didn't tell him the next day, nor 
the day after that. I kept putting it 
off, but I used to wince every time I 
went to that clothes closet. A week 
went by. Then one day I saw moths 
flying out of the closet and I saw where 



/ drew his head to 
my breast. "My poor 
darling," I said. 



they were coming from. They were in 
Julie's woolen coat. 

This has gone far enough, I thought. 
I pulled those clothes of Julie's out of 
the closet and shook them and brushed 
them furiously, then I wrapped them all 
up in brown paper and tied the bundles 
with twine. 



I waited until we were finishing our 
usual early dinner and were ready to 
leave for the printing plant. I had 
given my notice, and this would be my 
last night on the job. 

"Michael," I said, "that closet in the 
bed room is full of moths." 

He looked up from his coffee. "Who 
invited them?" he asked. 

I tried to answer in the same playful 
spirit, but I was afraid of what was 
coming and I couldn't quite make my 
voice sound right. 

"That woolen coat must have invited 
them," I said. "That coat of . . . Julie's." 

He stiffened just a little at the men- 
tion of her name. His eyes met mine 
and I tried to face him without flinch- 
ing. He had that sullen, stubborn look 
I had already come to know, and to 
fear. 

It was Michael who turned his eyes 
away first. He looked down at the 
table, pushing a spoon aimlessly, ner- 
vously, back and forth. 

"Isn't it about time we got rid of 




•^ ~* * 



*'"*, 









42 



Julie's things?" I asked trying to make 
it sound like a simple, normal ques- 
tion instead of the question on which 
my whole world might hinge. 

"I told her I'd keep them until she 
came back." It was a flat statement, 
brooking no denial. 

Until she came back! That was what 
he was waiting for. 

"Michael," I said, trying to breathe 
evenly, "Michael, darling, aren't you 
being just a bit silly?" 

"I told her I'd keep them and I will," 
he said. 

"But how long?" I insisted. "It's been 
two years. Everything has to end some 
time." The words were out before I 
realized what I was saying. He glanced 
up at me sharply, then he looked down 
again at the table. 

"There are some things ..." he be- 
gan. He stopped. "You wouldn't un- 
derstand." 

He can't possibly know how deeply 
he is hurting me, I told myself — he 
can't, or he wouldn't say it! 

"Perhaps I wouldn't," I said, trying 
to keep back my tears. "Perhaps only 
Julie is capable of loving ..." 

"Stop it!" 

TTE jumped to his feet, as near to 
* crying as I was. Oh, I wanted to 
go to him, to hold him in my arms, 
to tell him how I loved him, but there 
was no backing out now. Either I would 
have to go through with it or we were 
lost, both of us. We couldn't go on 
living together with Julie between us. 

"Do let's be sensible," I said. "Can't 
we make a bundle of Julie'-s things 
and send them to her parents?" 

"I don't want to have anything to 
do with them," he said. 

Julie's parents, he had told me once, 
hated him for marrying her. 

"Haven't you any idea where she is?" 
I asked. 

"No." A short, bitten-off word. 

"Then we must give her things 
away," I told him. 

He swung around and glared at me. I 
thought he was going to shout what- 
ever answer it was that trembled on 
his tongue. If it had been Julie, he 
would have shouted, I was sure. But 
I was sitting there quietly, with tears 
in my eyes. My head wasn't lifted in 
defiance, as Julie's probably would 
have been. He didn't say anything for 
a moment. Then when he spoke, he 
gave me back the quiet tone I had used 
to him. 

"Ann," he said, "I'm sure she'll be 
back for them some day. And I can't 
bring myself to get rid of them, or let 
you do it.' Don't ask me why. I just 
can't." 

I didn't have to ask him why. I 
knew. And yet I wanted to hear him 
say it. I said, "Michael, tell me honest- 
ly, do you . . .?" Then I stopped. I 
couldn't ask him whether he still loved 
Julie. He would have to answer yes, 
and I told myself that he might be 
wrong, that it might be just the ro- 
mantic Irish in him, fooling himself, 
dramatizing his lost love, making 
memory a reality. 

"Never mind," I said. 

Then I told him I had wrapped up 



Julie's clothes to keep out the dust, and 
that I would store them away in his 
old trunk in the basement. ' "There 
isn't enough clothes space for three of 
us," I said, "and her things will be 
waiting for her ... if she ever comes 
back." 

"Have you finished your coffee?" he 
said. "We'll be late for work." 

We went outside and got in the car. 
And as we drove to the printing plant, 
we didn't have a word to say, either of 
us. We sat staring straight ahead. I 
knew what was in my mind — and I 
wished with all my heart that I knew 
what was in Michael's. 

We passed Mr. Harry Bogart on the 
way into the office. Michael had only a 
curt nod for him. 

I remember thinking then that it 
wasn't very wise, but it was so like 
Michael to be rude to the boss's son. 
And I could see as soon as we got into 
the plant that Michael was carrying his 
grouch inside with him. He was short 
with the men whom he looked on as his 
personal friends. One of them came 
over to me and joked about Michael's 
toast having been burned that morning. 

I laughed it off, but it wasn't easy. 
I was glad it was my last day at my 
job, and that I wouldn't have to hear 
the men's jokes about Michael's mar- 
ried life any more. Sometimes those 
rough but good-natured jokes were 
too near truth for comfort. 

It was later in the evening that Harry 
Bogart came into the shop. Michael 
had been wielding a wrench and swear- 
ing at a Mehlie press that was giving 
trouble. He saw Harry Bogart stand- 
ing at the other end of the plant, but 
he paid no attention. Finally the boss's 
son called to him. He already had a 
chip on his shoulder where Michael was 
concerned, and instead of going to 
Michael, he wanted Michael to come 
to him, just to make sure Michael un- 
derstood who was boss. 

He called a second time, and waited. 
And finally he came over to Michael, 
his face red. I watched the two of 
them, my heart sinking. There had 
been trouble brewing between them 
for a month and now it was coming to 
a head. 

"Didn't you hear me calling you?" 
Harry Bogart said. His voice sounded 
like tearing paper. 

Michael was still bending over the 
press. Slowly he stood up straight. Ter- 
rified though I was, I couldn't help feel- 
ing proud of his dignity. Both he and 
Harry Bogart were big, powerful men, 
but the boss's son seemed to shrink 
under his level eyes. 

"Was that what that yelping was?" 
Michael said. "I thought a puppy had 
got in here by mistake." 

Harry Bogart's face turned from red 
to white. One of the printers started 
to laugh, then put his hand over his 
mouth. 

And then young Mr. Bogart said 
something foolish. "When a man talks 
to me like that," he announced, "it 
means he wants a punch in the nose." 

It was all the invitation Michael 
needed. Without another word, he 
swung at Harry Bogart's jaw. 

A typesetter was just coming by 



with a galley of monotype, and as 
Harry staggered and fell over back- 
wards, the galley went out of the man's 
hands, and the type and Harry Bogart 
were scattered in a heap on the floor. 

They picked Harry Bogart up and 
brushed him off. Michael' went slowly 
to the locker rooms, without even look- 
ing over his shoulder. When he came 
out, I thought he was going to ask me 
to leave with him, but he didn't. 

I got up then and came across the 
room to him. People were staring at 
us, but I couldn't help that. "Michael," 
I cried, "where are you going? What 
are you going to do?" 

He didn't answer my question. "I'm 
sorry you had to see it, Ann," was all 
he said. And he walked out. 

I knew he didn't want me to go with 
him, wherever he was going, and I felt 
somehow that if I stayed I might help 
to keep him from losing his job, that 
there might be some one I could talk 
to. But I couldn't talk to anyone. I was 
too frightened. I had a hard enough 
time trying to concentrate on my work 
until it was time to leave. 

Michael wasn't home when I got 
there. I sat up waiting for him; I 
couldn't sleep. When it got to be light 
outside, I was still on the couch in 
the living room, thinking, thinking, 
hoping to find a way out of the mess 
Michael and I were in. 

I knew what was at the bottom of 
it Julie. Julie's shadow was with us, 
just as surely as her clothes and her 
possessions were still in our house. 

I lay on the couch and tried to doze. 
And after another hour I heard Michael 
open the door softly, and come quickly 
into the room. He stood looking down 
at me as I lay there, fully dressed, 
my head on my arm. 

When he sat down on the couch 
beside me, I sat up and rubbed, my 
eyes. 

"What time is it?" I asked. 

"It's morning," he said. He had been 
drinking, but he could talk clearly. 
That was one thing about Michael. 
He sat with his head bowed. "Go on," 
he said finally, "I know what you want 
to say to me." 

But he was (Continued on page 82) 



Harry James, at the age of six, 
was playing hot drums in his 
father's circus band . . . at fif- 
teen, he was trumpeter with Ben 
Pollack's orchestra . . . and then 
with Benny Goodman's . . . he 
formed his own band in 1939, and 
since then Harry James has be- 
come the Pied Piper of hepcats 
and jitterbugs. His radio program 
is heard Tuesdays, Wednesdays 
and Thursdays, at 7:75 P. M„ over 
CBS . . . his new picture will be 
MGM's "A Tale of Two Sisters!" 



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voice and a band — -Radio Mirror gives you Bob Allen 



Music by 
HARRY MILLEH 




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46 



Ebenezer Williams is the sheriff of Crabtree County. Long 
ago, Nick and Nora inherited some property and when they 
went up to claim it, they met Eb. Since then, the three be- 
came fast friends and have been solving mysteries ever since. 
(Played by Parker Fennelly) 



Here are your favorite radio 
sleuths, happy-go-lucky Nick 
and Nora Charles, who take 
baffling mysteries in their 
stride Friday nights on CBS 



NOT only are Nick and Nora Charles 
radio's most happily married 
couple, but beyond the shadow 
of a doubt, they lead the most exciting 
lives of any married couple in radio. It 
is a rare Adventures of The Thin Man 
script in which at least two murders 
don't occur, and every now and then 
things end up with everybody dead. 
Everybody but Nick and Nora, that is. 
During the two years they have been 
on the air, Nick and Nora have been in 
plenty of tight places, but up to the 
present writing, never one that has been, 
too tight. Nick gets an occasional mild 
attack of petticoat fever which Nora 
has to cure. And Nick has good reason 
to question some of the more startling 
of Nora's steady flow of zany ideas. But 
the sun has never set on an Adventure 
of The Thin Man broadcast leaving 
Nick and Nora at odds with each other. 
On the contrary, every script ends with 
the weekly meeting of the Charles Mu- 
tual Admiration Society. The Charleses 
regular Friday night game of cops and 
robbers leads them into gambling 
places, courtrooms, morgues, opium 
dens, swami lodges, gangster hideouts, 
jails and similar spots usually not vis- 
ited by the average American couple. 
But listeners know to begin with that 
Nick and Nora can pull out of any 
difficulty and that the murderer or 
murderers are bound to be caught. It's 
fun finding out how — which makes 
good listening. The Adventures of The 
Thin Man is written by Dashiell Ham- 
mett, creator of the famous couple 
known as Nick and Nora Charles. 




Nick and Nora Charles have been called, and rightly, the most happily married couple in radio. 
Whereas most radio marriages are rocked by a thousand tricky cross currents, the ^Charles' 
marital ship sails across glass-smooth waters with never a harsh word passing between two people 
very much in love. Above, the lovable Nick and Nora in the living room of their penthouse apartment. 

(Played by Claudia Morgan and Les Damon) 



47 



48 



After the years of heart- 
break she waited to hear 
Laurence say r T love you." 
But he only said, re I am 
afraid I don't want to 
know the girl you are now" 



WHEN I dressed for the party ai 
Dr. Laurence Martin's grand 
white-pillared house on Chest- 
nut Hill, each step was part of a cere- 
mony, as important as my graduation 
from Normal the day before. No, more 
important, for my graduation had 
meant the end of a life I hated, and the 
party was a symbol of a bright new 
beginning. 

When I looked into the mirror I 
hardly knew myself, my reflection was 
so different from the Franny Lane I'd 
always known. 

"But that's what you want," I told 
myself stoutly. "Tonight no one will 
look at you and think how poor and 
noble you've been, getting yourself 
and your crippled brother through 
school on your dad's insurance and 
what you could earn by singing. To- 
night no one will feel sorry for you, 
not even Laurence Martin. Especially 
Laurence Martin." 

But when I thought of Laurence I 
wanted to run from my reflection, rub 
off the lipstick and get into my shabby 
little gray flannel suit and be the meek 
small person Laurence had taken on so 
many walks up to our special lookout 
on the bluff over the Mississippi. 

How often I was to wish I had. 

But I didn't. I clenched my fingers 
on the lipstick and made my mouth a 
darker red. All right, so he had walked 
with me in my little gray suit. But 
that was only because he was a sweet 
man. who happened to have a cousin 
named Sandra who made a point of 
snubbing me. Tonight was to be differ- 
ent. Whatever he felt about me to- 
night, it wouldn't be pity. Not in this 
dress. 

It was very red, the dress, its taffeta 
very shiny, and the pleated ruffles out- 
lined a heart-shaped bodice that was 
low, Without a sign of a shoulder strap. 
Above it my skin was gardenia-white, 
and my pale golden hair, drawn smooth 
from my forehead, shone with rain- 
bows like you see in oil on water, 
falling soft and smooth until the end 
sprang into light, loose curls. Oh, yes, 
the new Franny Lane was pretty! 

Still, I covered my shoulders with a 
Spanish shawl that had belonged to my 
mother and went out to the fragrant 
dimness of the porch to wait for Laur- 
ence. I wasn't ready to have him see 
me yet. Wait till I came down the 
great curved stairway and stood be- 
neath the crystal chandelier in the hall 




of his home. That would be the back- 
ground for the new Franny Lane, a 
background to which the invitation 
from his mother had given me the 
right. To me that little folded card 
meant more than an invitation from 
the wife of one of the two great sur- 
geon brothers who had put Still- 
meadow on the medical map of the 
world. It was like a door opening to 
vistas I had hardly dared to picture in 
my dreams. What had Laurence told 
his family about me when he asked 
them to welcome me in his home? 
Enough, at least, to make a sudden 
change in Sandra's attitude. For she 
had made her first friendly gesture to 
me since she had come to Stillmeadow. 
Without her tip I might not have had 
the courage to buy my evening dress. 

But when I saw Laurence coming up 
our walk, his blond hair shining in the 
moonlight even brighter than his white 
linen jacket, I forgot my dress. I al- 
most forgot the party, everything but 
the sweetness of being with him, of 
walking along the road with my arm 
touching his. 

I had worshipped Laurence all my 
life, it seemed to me. Ever since he 
had brought his father to examine my 
brother Ronny, I had thought he was 
the most beautiful person I had ever 
known, though I guess most people 
would not have thought him even 



handsome. He was always too thin for 
his height, his features were irregular, 
and sometimes his face looked all chin 
and cheekbones. But the light in his 
blue eyes when he talked of his work 
at the Medical Center would dazzle me 
until I'd feel almost sick with love for 
him. Tonight he spoke quickly, as if 
he couldn't wait to tell me, of the Chil- 
dren's Wing that would open tomorrow. 
"The carpenters are gone, and the boss 
painter swears everything will be dry 
enough by morning to start moving in 
the kids." His voice broke in the eager 
way it had. "Franny, I can't believe 
it's really going to open." 

I had shared his dream, which now 
in only the second year of his intern- 
ship at the Center was coming true. I 
said, "I knew it would, Laurence. I 
knew it the day your dad said it was 
too late to help Ronny. You clenched 
your fists and you frowned so I was 
almost scared of you. But I knew 
you'd fix things for a lot of other kids 
some day." 



My True Story Radio Drama 




He said, "You've helped, too, Franny." 
His voice was husky, as he went on. "I 
guess it's sort of sentimental to talk 
about inspiration, but having you there 
singing for the kids every Saturday, 
rain or shine, has kind of kept me 
fighting." 

Words didn't come easy for Laurence; 
like his father and his uncle, he put his 
feelings into curing people of their ills. 
' And now to hear him speak of what 
was in his heart was part of my dream 
of what tonight should be. I held my 
breath for what might come next. But 
it was not what I had hoped. 

"About your singing," he said, "I 
almost forgot to tell you. The radio 
station's told us half an hour of the 
dedication's going to be hooked up on a 
national network." 



Even that didn't seem strange or sur- 
prising. It was just part of the magic 
of tonight. Yesterday's graduation, my 
brother's new war job, the party, 
Sandra's friendliness, the dedication 
tomorrow — they were all omens of the 
new life opening up for me. 

But actually stepping into it was 
something else again. When I entered 
the vast hallway of the Martin home, 
my knees nearly gave way beneath me. 
The butler indicated the stairway, but 
the carpets seemed so thick that it was 
like wading through deep grass that 
clutched at my feet to get there. The 
humming in my ears drowned out his 
murmur, and I had no idea where I 
was to go upstairs, or what to do. 

But an elderly maid in gray silk was 
waiting in the open door of a bedroom 



that seemed full of apple blossoms, 
with pink walls and a white rug and 
pink and white chintz hangings on the 
great four-poster bed. I handed her 
my shawl and sat down at the dressing 
table trying to find things to do to my 
face and fingers until the other girls 
should arrive. I could not go down 
and greet Mrs. Martin all alone. 

At last I heard them coming up the 
stairs, the voice of Sandra gay and 
shrill among the others. I stood up and 
faced the door, my features set in a 
smile very bright, very confident. This 
time things would be all right, I told 
myself. The school years Sandra had 
made miserable for me were over, she 
had shown her willingness to be my 
friend. And tonight I was wearing an 
evening dress as good as she or her 
friends would wear. 

That was true enough. Because they 
weren't wearing evening dresses at all. 

Does it seem a small thing to stand 
there, my shoulders white and naked 
above the bright red dress, facing those 
girls in fluffy pastel sweaters and light 
short skirts above their bare legs and 
ankle socks and saddle shoes? 

Well, to someone else it might have 
been a small thing, a minor incident 
easily carried off. But I had been hurt 
too often. My clothes had been a cause 
for shame too long. My pride was raw 
and tender. 

Sandra said, "Why, Franny darling. 
What a luscious frock!" Her tone made 
me see my dress suddenly as garish, 
cheap. She added, thoughtfully, "But I 
do hope none of the boys start getting 
playful and tipping over canoes." 

"Canoes?" I echoed miserably. 

"Didn't Larry tell you?" she asked in 
wide-eyed surprise. "We're going on a 
moonlight paddle up to Gerry's land- 
ing." 

I could only shake my head numbly. 

Afterward, I thought of all the 
smooth ways I could have handled it. 
In the long sick hours of the night I 
imagined myself saying brightly, "Well, 
Sandra, you'll have to pay for your 
misinformation with the loan a sweater 
and skirt." Or I could have worn my 
dress, my head held high, sending my 
laughter and my songs proudly across 
the water, so that the boys would have 
found my costume an asset after all. 
But in that moment all I could manage 
was to hold my lips firm against their 
trembling and to wink back tears. I 
had to listen to (Continued on page 60) 



49 



After the years of heart- 
break she waited to hear 
Laurence say "I love you." 
But he only said, "I am 
afraid I don't want to 
know the girl you are now" 



WHEN I dressed for the party ai 
Dr. Laurence Martin's grand 
white-pillared house on Chest- 
nut Hill, each step was part of a cere- 
mony, as important as my graduation 
from Normal the day before. No, more 
important, for my graduation had 
meant the end of a life I hated, and the 
party was a symbol of a bright new 
beginning. 

When I looked into the mirror I 
hardly knew myself, my reflection was 
so different from the Franny Lane I'd 
always known. 

"But that's what you want, I told 
myself stoutly. "Tonight no one will 
look at you and think how poor and 
noble you've been, getting yourself 
and your crippled brother through 
school on your dad's insurance and 
what you could earn by singing. To- 
night no one will feel sorry for you, 
not even Laurence Martin. Especially 
Laurence Martin." 

But when 1 thought of Laurence I 
wanted to run from my reflection, rub 
off the lipstick and get into my shabby 
little gray flannel suit and be the meek 
small person Laurence had taken on so 
many walks up to our special lookout 
on the bluff over the Mississippi. 
How often I was to wish I had. 
But I didn't. I clenched my fingers 
on the lipstick and made my mouth a 
darker red. All right, so he had walked 
with me in my little gray suit. But 
that was only because he was a sweet 
man who happened to have a cousin 
named Sandra who made a point of 
snubbing me. Tonight was to be differ- 
ent. Whatever he felt about me to- 
night, it wouldn't be pity. Not in this 
dress. 

It was very red, the dress, its taffeta 
very shiny, and the pleated ruffles out- 
lined a heart-shaped bodice that was 
low, Without a sign ot a shoulder strap. 
Above it my skin was gardenia-white, 
and my pale golden hair, drawn smooth 
from my forehead, shone with rain- 
bows like you see in oil on water, 
falling soft and smooth until the end 
sprang into light, loose curls. Oh, yes, 
the new Franny Lane was pretty! 

Still, I covered my shoulders with a 
Spanish shawl that had belonged to my 
mother and went out to the fragrant 
dimness of the porch to wait for Laur- 
ence. I wasn't ready to have him see 
me yet. Wait till I came dow 
great curved stairway and stood be- 
neath the crystal chandelier in the hall 




48 



My 



of his home. That would be the back- 
ground for the new Franny Lane, a 
background to which the invitation 
from his mother had given me the 
right. To me that little folded card 
meant more than an invitation from 
the wife of one of the two great sur- 
geon brothers who had put Still- 
meadow on the medical map of the 
world. It was like a door opening to 
vistas I had hardly dared to picture in 
my dreams. What had Laurence told 
his family about me when he asked 
them to welcome me in his home? 
Enough, at least, to make a sudden 
change in Sandra's attitude. For she 
had made her first friendly gesture to 
me since she had come to Stillmeadow 
Without her tip I might not have had 
the courage to buy my evening dress 
But when I saw Laurence coming ud 
our walk, his blond hair shining in the 
moonlight even brighter than his white 
linen jacket, I forgot my dress. I al- 
most forgot the party, everything but 
the sweetness of being with him of 

ro a uS a hir gthe,oadwith ^- 

hfe, h .fse:St^ L ^-^ T 
had brought his father to exam, he 
brother Ronny, I had tho«StT e my 
the most beauiiful person fhari 6 W3S 
known, though I m e « " „ . ever 
would not gave Z^L'Tel 

True Story Radio D 



handsome. He was always too thin 
his height, his features were irr ^ u 'j„ 
and sometimes his face looked all en 



and cheekbones. But the light in 



blue eyes when he talked of his 



work 



at the Medical Center would dazzle i 
until I'd feel almost sick with love ^ 
him. Tonight he spoke quickly, » 
he couldn't wait to tell me, of the o 
dren's Wing that would open t°™ or bos s 
"The carpenters are gone, and th e ^ 
painter swears everything will D ^ 
enough by morning to start m " v '"t, e: 
the kids." His voice broke in the e« 
way it had. "Franny, I cant oe 
it's really going to open." „„# 

I had shared his dream, win c ■ . 
in only the second year of h' s 1 

ship at the Center was coming x j 
said, "I knew it would, Laurt ^ 
knew it the day your dad saia ^ 
too late to help Ronny. You l ^ ^ 
your fists and you frowned so ^ 
almost scared of you. B , u ther ki<l s 
you'd fix things for a lot ot ou 
some day." 



rama 



Hi * voice'Jf°u Ve hel P ed > to °- Franny." 
^ss it's « * Sky ' as he went on - " l 
,bo >" insnir*- ° f sentir «ental to talk 
s 'ngi ng for :l on ; but having you there 
?* or shi„ u klds everv Saturday, 
6 Shtin g ." ne ' has kind of kept me 

l' k<! hisfcrthr' 1 COme eas y for Laurence; 
eelift es into and his un de, he put his 
^ "o* T ? nng pe °P le of their ills. 
? inl >is hear f rhim s P eak °*" what 
k H « tonfak. Was part of m y dream 
SiftS? sh °«M be. I held my 

* as not whJlV? 18111 come ne xt. But 

'Abo m *n had hoped. 
£l° St forgot" 1 ; Slngin ^" h e said, "I 
*>'« told , t eU you - T he radio 

S°nW half a " hour of the 

,,0na l nftf,* be h °°ked "P °n a 



Even that didn't seem strange or sur- 
prising. It was just part of the magic 
of tonight. Yesterday's graduation, my 
brother's new war job, the party, 
Sandra's friendliness, the dedication 
tomorrow— they were all omens of the 
new life opening up for me. 

But actually stepping into it was 
something else again. When I entered 
the vast hallway of the Martin home, 
my knees nearly gave way beneath me. 
The butler indicated the sta.rway , but 
the carpets seemed so thick that it was 
like wading through deep giass that 
clutched at my feet to get there. The 
humming in my ears drowned out ^ hi 
murmur, and I had no idea where 
was to go upstairs, or what to da 

But an elderly maid in gray si ikwas 
waiting in the open door of a bedroom 



that seemed full of apple blossoms, 
with pink walls and a white rug and 
pink and white chintz hangings on the 
great four-poster bed. I handed her 
my shawl and sat down at the dressing 
table trying to find things to do to my 
face and fingers until the other girls 
should arrive. I could not go down 
and greet Mrs. Martin all alone. 

At last I heard them coming up the 
stairs, the voice of Sandra gay and 
shrill among the others. I stood up and 
faced the door, my features set in a 
smile very bright, very confident. This 
time things would be all right, I told 
myself. The school years Sandra had 
made miserable for me were over, she 
had shown her willingness to be my 
friend. And tonight I was wearing an 
evening dress as good as she or her 
friends would wear. 

That was true enough. Because they 
weren't wearing evening dresses at all. 
Does it seem a small thing to stand 
there, my shoulders white and naked 
above the bright red dress, facing those 
girls in fluffy pastel sweaters and light 
short skirts above their bare legs and 
ankle socks and saddle shoes? 

Well, to someone else it might have 
been a small thing, a minor incident 
easily carried off. But I had been hurt 
too often. My clothes had been a cause 
for shame too long. My pride was raw 
and tender. 

Sandra said, "Why, Franny darling. 
What a luscious frock!" Her tone made 
me see my dress suddenly as garish, 
cheap. She added, thoughtfully, "But I 
do hope none of the boys start getting 
playful and tipping over canoes." 
"Canoes?" I echoed miserably. 
"Didn't Larry tell you?" she asked in 
wide-eyed surprise. "We're going on a 
moonlight paddle up to Gerry's land- 
ing." 
I could only shake my head numbly. 
Afterward, I thought of all the 
smooth ways I could have handled it. 
In the long sick hours of the night I 
imagined myself saying brightly, "Well, 
Sandra, you'll have to pay for your 
misinformation with the loan a sweater 
and skirt." Or I could have worn my 
dress, my head held high, sending my 
laughter and my songs proudly across 
the water, so that the boys would have 
found my costume an asset after all. 
But in that moment all I could manage 
was to hold my lips firm against their 
trembling and to wink back tears. I 
had to listen to (Continued on page 60) 




NOT ONLY FOR BREAKFAST 



50 



WITH meat and many cheeses ra- 
tioned and with poultry and fish 
supplies subject to regional and 
seasonal variations, eggs are rapidly 
coming to be our most dependable 
source of the protein we need daily. 
They have moved from breakfast to the 
other meals of the day and there are so 
many nourishing and appetizing ways 
of serving them that they undoubtedly 
stay popular for main course dishes 
long after our meat and cheese supplies 
have returned to normal abundance. 

Hard-cooked eggs form the basis of 
so many recipes that it is impossible to 
include more than a few in one article. 
Even deviled eggs, so dear to picnickers, 
now come to the table seasoned with 
curry and hot from the grill, along with 
tomatoes and eggplant, as illustrated. 

Curried Eggs Grill 

3 hard-cooked eggs 
Vz tsp. curry powder 
2 tsps. vinegar 
2 tsps. lemon juice 
2 tbls. cream or top milk 

Eggplant slices (unpeeled) 

Tomato halves 

Cracker crumbs 
1 tbl. butter or margarine 

Salt and pepper to taste 

Cut eggs in lengthwise halves, re- 
move yolks and rub smooth with a 
fork. Add vinegar (flavored vinegar 
from sweet pickles is good) and lemon 
juice and mix well. Blend in cream 
which has had the curry powder stirred 
into it. Stuff eggs with curry mixture, 
sprinkle with crumbs and place on grill 
with eggplant slices and tomato halves. 



Dot with butter, sprinkle with salt and 
pepper (a little bit of dried basil on the 
tomatoes will help) and cook under 
broiler flame until tomatoes and egg- 
plant are tender and eggs golden brown 
(15 to 20 minutes), turning eggplant 
once during the broiling. Mushrooms 
may also be used, either in place of one 
of the other vegetables or in addition 
to them. 

Peanut Butter Creamed Eggs 

4 hard-cooked eggs 
IV2 cups hot medium white sauce 
2 tbls. peanut butter 
Salt and pepper to taste 

Add peanut butter to hot white sauce 
and beat until smooth. Add salt and 
pepper to taste, then the hard -cooked 
eggs, sliced crosswise, or cut the eggs 
into halves and pour the sauce over 
them. Serve with noodles or rice. 
Diced pimiento or minced pimiento 
may also be added just before serving. 
This is especially good served with 



BY 
KATE SMITH 

RADIO MIRROR 
FOOD COUNSELOR 
Kate Smith's vacation- 
ing from her Friday 
night variety pro- 
gram, but broadcasts 
her daily talks at noon 
on CBS, sponsored 
by General Foods. 




watercress or dandelion green salad. 

Another appetizing sauce to serve 
with eggs is puree of peas. 

Puree of Peas and Eggs 

1 cup quick cooking dried peas 

liquid to cover 
1 tsp. minced onion 
1 tsp. minced carrot 
1 tsp, minced parsley or celery leaves 

Salt and pepper to taste 
6 hard-cooked eggs 

Few drops lemon juice 
Cover peas with liquid (water or 
stock in which meat or vegetables have 
been cooked), add onion, carrot and 
parsley and simmer until mixture is the 
consistency of medium white sauce. 
Add salt and pepper to taste and sliced 
eggs and continue simmering until eggs 
are hot. Remove from heat and stir in 
lemon juice just before serving. 

There is no limit except our own 
ingenuity - to the ways in which scram- 
bled eggs can be varied, but one of my 
favorites is made with rice. 

Rice Scrambled Eggs 

4 eggs 

1 tsp. minced onion 

2 tbls. butter, margarine or drippings ' 
1 cup cooked rice 

Vz cup shredded lettuce 
Salt and pepper to taste 

Sautee onion lightly in butter. Add 
rice and cook slowly, stirring fre- 
quently, until rice is piping hot, adding 
more butter if it tends to stick. Add 
shredded lettuce. Beat eggs lightly, 
add salt and pepper, and pour over 
rice. Cook over low heat until egg 
mixture is set. 



J 



INSIDE RADIO -Telling You About Programs and People You Want to Hear 



SUNDAY 



u 

£ 


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Eastern War Time 



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CBS: News and Organ 

Blue: News 

NBC: News and Organ Recital 

CBS: Musical Masterpieces 

Blue: The Woodshedders 

CBS: News of the World 

Blue: Robert Bellaire — News 

NBC: News from Europe 

CBS: E. Power Biggs 

Blue: White Rabbit Line 

NBC: Commando Mary 

NBC: Marcia Nell 

CBS: English Melodies 

CBS: Church of the Air 

Blue: Fantasy in Melody 

NBC: Highlights of the Bible 

CBS: Wings Over Jordan 

Blue: Southernaires 

NBC: Warren Sweeney. News 

Blue: Guest Orch. 

CBS: Egon Petri, Pianist 

MBS: Radio Chapel 

Blue: Josef Marais 

CBS: Invitation to Learning 

Olivio Santoro 

CBS: SALT LAKE TABERNACLE 

Blue; News from Europe 

NBC: Hospitality Time 

CBS: TRANSATLANTIC CALL 

Blue: Stars from the Blue 

NBC: That They Might Live 

CBS: Church of the Air 

Blue: This is Official 

NBC: Rupert Hughes 

Labor for Victory 

CBS: Quincy Howe 

NBC: We Believe 

Blue: Kidoodlers 

CBS: Stoopnagle's Stooparoos 

Blue: Martin Agronsky 

Blue: Chaplain Jim, U. S. A. 

NBC: University of Chicago Round 
Table 

CBS: World News Today 

NBC: John Charles Thomas 

Blue: Sammy Kaye's Orch. 

CBS: Aunt Jemima 

CBS: New York Philarmonic 

Symphony 

Blue: Moylan Sisters 

NBC: Reports on Rationing 

Blue: Wake Up America 

NBC: Upton Close 

NBC: The Army Hour 

Blue: Sunday Vespers 

CBS: Pause that Refreshes 

Blue: Green Hornet 

NBC: Lands of the Free 

NBC: Summer Symphony — Dr. 

Frank Black 

CBS: The Family Hour 

Blue: Gunther & Vandercook 

Blue: Ella Fitzgerald 

MBS: Upton Close 

Blue: Musical Steelmakers 

MBS: The Shadow 

CBS: William L. Shirer 

CBS: Edward R. Murrow 

Blue: Here's to Romance 

MBS: First Nighter 

NBC: Catholic Hour 

CBS: Irene Rich 

CBS: Gene Autry 

Blue: Arch Obeler Drama 

CBS: Chips Davis. Commando 

MBS: Voice of Prophecy 

Blue: Drew Pearson 

NBC: Those We Love 

Blue: Edward Tomlinson 

MBS: Stars and Stripes in Britain 

CBS: We, the People 

Blue: Quiz Kids 

NBC: Fitch Bandwagon 

Blue: Roy Porter, News 

NBC: Paul Whiteman, Dinah Shore 

CBS: Crime Doctor 

Blue: Inner Sanctum Mystery 

NBC: ONE MAN'S FAMILY 

MBS: Gabriel Heatter 

CBS: Eric Sevareid 

CBS: Radio Reader's Digest 

MBS: Old-Fashioned Revival 

Blue: Walter Winchell 

NBC: Manhattan Merry-Go-Round 

Blue: Chamber Music Society of 

Lower Basin St. 

Blue: Jimmie Fidler 

NBC: American Album of 
Familiar Music 

Take It or Leave It 

Goodwill Hour 

John B. Hughes 

Hour of Charm 

CBS: The Man Behind the Gun 

CBS: Eric Sevareid 

CBS: Larry Lesueur 

CBS: Tommy Tucker Orchestra 

NBC: Cesar Saerchinger 



9:30 
9:30 

10:00 CBS: 
10:00 Blue: 
10:00 MBS: 
10:00 NBC: 
10:30 
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11:30NBC: Unlimited Horizons 




PERPETUAL YOUTH... 

Most young boys- live for the day 
they can "grow up" and be a fireman, a cop, 
a ball player or any one of the professions 
which seem glamorous to the young mind. 
The boy you see above is the exception. His 
name is Walter Tetley and he hopes he'll 
never grow up. He has had such fun play- 
ing kid parts on the radio that he hopes 
it will never end. 

Walter is now tickling the funny bone of 
the nation in the role of Leroy Forrester 
in the Great Gildersleeve program, heard 
Sundays on the Blue, 6:30 P.M., EWT. He 
is Uncle Mort Gildersleeve's famous nephew, 
the wonderful brat who brings that yowl 
"Lee — Roy!" from way deep inside his frus- 
trated and blustering uncle. 

Young Tetley has been a professional en- 
tertainer ever since he was five years old. 
His mother, who came from Scotland, had a 
particular fondness for Sir Harry Lauder 
and the famous. Scot's records were played 
continually in the Tetley household. 

Walter began to imitate Lauder. It so de- 
lighted an uncle of his that he gave him a 
miniature set of bagpipes. By the time he 
was four, Walter was giving out with Scotch 
dialect and playing his pipes at lodge meet- 
ings and gatherings of the clan. The demand 
for him became so great that managers of 
professionals heard about him and per- 
suaded his mother to put him on the stage. 
Walter, therefore, played his first theater 
date at the Loew's Capitol in Jersey City. 
He had just passed his fifth birthday. 

A short while after this vaudeville debut, 
Madge Tucker had Walter appear on her 
Children's Hour program. Young Tetley 
was so self assured and confident at the 
microphone that Miss Tucker hired him to 
go on another show she had written called 
"The Lady Next Door." That almost ruined 
Walter's career. The show necessitated a 
script and Walter was at an age when read- 
ing was a tough assignment. "The only 
thing I could read," Walter laughs, "was the 
first grade primer, the comics and Variety." 

What he did was to toss the primer and 
comics aside and learn how to read from 
scripts. It got so he spent more time at 
NBC than he did at home. 

Fred Allen heard about Walter and hired 
him to play "brat" roles. For the next five 
years, Tetley was the boy stooge of the 
Allen Company. 

There is hardly a big name in radio with 
whom Tetley has not played. He has been 
a "brat" on the air with Walter O'Keefe, 
Ted Healy, Joe Penner, Jack Benny, Fibber 
McGee, Ken Murray, Eddie Cantor and now 
Hal Peary, "The Great Gildersleeve." 

Next to acting, Walter likes to jitterbug 
and knows all the latest steps which makes 
him an average American kid, with ex- 
ceptional talent. 



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MONDAY 



News 

BREAKFAST CLUB 

Chapel Singers 

This Life is Mine 

Sing Along 

Valiant Lady 

Isabel Manning Hewson 

Robert St. John, News 

Lora Lawton 

Kitty Foyle 

Roy Porter, News 

The O'Neills 

Honeymoon Hill 

The Baby Institute 

Help Mate 

Bachelor's Children 

Gene & Glenn 

A Woman of America 

God's Country 

Breakfast at Sardi's 

Road of Life 

Second Husband 

Vic and Sade 

Bright Horizon 

Jack Baker, Songs 

Snow Village 

Aunt Jenny's Stories 

Little Jack Little 

David Harum 

KATE SMITH SPEAKS 

Big Sister 

Romance of Helen Trent 

Farm and Home Hour 

Our Gal Sunday 

Life Can Be Beautiful 

Baukhage Talking 

Ma Perkins 

Edward MacHugh 

Vic and Sade 

The Goldbergs 

Vincent Lopez Orch. 

Carey Longmire. News 

Young Dr. Malone 

Light of the World 

Joyce Jordan, M.D. 

Mystery Chef 

Lonely Women 

We Love and Learn 

The Guiding Light 

Stella Unger 

Pepper Young's Family 

Hymns of All Churches 

Elizabeth Bemis, News 

Morton Downey 

Mary Martin 

Joe & Ethel Turp 

Ma Perkins 

My True Story 

Pepper Young's Family 

Johnny Gart Trio 

Right to Happiness 

Ted Malone 

Green Valley, U. S. A. 

Your Home Front Reporter 

Club Matinee 

Backstage Wife 

Stella Dallas 

News 

Men of the Sea 

Lorenzo Jones 

Perry Como, Songs 

Sea Hound 

Young Widder Brown 

Madeleine Carroll Reads 

Archie Andrews 

When a Girl Marries 

Mother and Dad 

Portia Faces Life 

Dick Tracy 

Are You a Genius 

Jack Armstrong 

Just Plain Bill 

Superman 

Front Page Farrell 

Keep the Home Fires Burning 

Captain Midnight 

Quincy Howe 

Eric Sevareid 

Lulu Bates 

Today at the Duncans 

The World Today 

Lowell Thomas 

I Love a Mystery 

Fred Waring's Gang 

Coast Guard Dance Band 

Ceiling Unlimited 

Blondie 

The Lone Ranger 

H. V. Kaltenborn 

Vox Pop 

Earl Godwin, News 

Cavalcade of America 

Lum and Abner 

GAY NINETIES 

True or False 

Voice of Firestone 

Bulldog Drummond 

Cecil Brown 

LUX THEATER 

Counter-Spy 

Gabriel Heatter 

The Telephone Hour 

Spotlight Bands 

Doctor I. Q. 

Harry Wismer, Sports 

Screen Guild Players 

Raymond Clapper 

Raymond Gram Swing 

Contented Program 

Gracie Fields 

Three Ring Time 

Alec Templeton 



51 



TUESDAY 



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Eastern War Time 



8:30 Blue: Texas Jim 

9:00 CBS: News 

9:00 Blue: BREAKFAST CLUB 

9:00 NBC: Everything Goes 

9:15 CBS: Melodie Moments 

9:30 CBS: This Life is Mine 

9:45 CBS: Sing Along 

10:00 CBS: Valiant Lady 

10:00 Blue: Isabel Manning Hewson 

9:45 NBC: Robert St. John, News 

10:00 NBC: Lora Lawton 

10:15 CBS: Kitty Foyle 

10:15 Blue: News 

10:15 NBC: The O'Neills 

10:30 CBS: Honeymoon Hill 

10:30 Blue: Baby Institute 

10:30 NBC: Help Mate 

10:45 CBS: Bachelor's Children 

10:45 Blue: Gene & Glenn 

10:45 NBC: A Woman of America 

11:00 CBS: Mary Lee Taylor 

11:00 Blue: Breakfast at Sardi's 

11:00 NBC: Road of Life 

11:15 CBS: Second Husband 

11:15 NBC: Vic and Sade 

11:30 CBS: Bright Horizon 

11:30 Blue: Hank Lawson's Knights 

11:30 NBC: Snow Village 

11:45 CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories 

11:45 Blue: Little Jack Little 

11:45 NBC: David Harum 

12:00 CBS: Kate Smith Speaks 

12:15 CBS: Big Sister 

12:30 CBS: Romance of Helen Trent 

12:30 Blue: Farm and Home Hour 

12:45 CBS: Our Gal Sunday 

1:00 CBS: Life Can Be Beautiful 

1:00 Blue: Baukhage Talking 

1:00 NBC: Air Breaks 

1:15 CBS: Ma Perkins 

1:15 Blue: Edward MacHugh 

1:30 CBS: Vic and Sade 

1:45 CBS: The Goldbergs 

1:45 NBC: Carey Longmire, News 

2:00 CBS: Young Dr. Malone 

2:00 NBC: Light of the World 

2:15 CBS: Joyce Jordan, M.D. 

2:15 NBC: Lonely Women 

2:30 CBS: We Love and Learn 

2:30 Blue: James McDonald 

2:30 NBC: The Guiding Light 

2:45 CBS: Pepper Young's Family 

2:45 NBC: Hymns of All Churches 

3:00 CBS: News 

3:00 Blue: Morton Downey 

3:00 NBC: Mary Marlin 

3:15 CBS: Joe & Ethel Turp 

3:15 Blue: My True Story 

3:15 NBC: Ma Perkins 

3:30 CBS: Johnny Gart Trio 

3:45 CBS: Green Valley, U. S. A. 

3:30 NBC: Pepper Young's Family 

3:45 NBC: Right to Happiness 

3:45 Blue: Ted Malone 

4:00 CBS: Your Home Front Reporter 

4:00 Blue: Club Matinee 

4:00 NBC: Backstage Wife 

4:25 NBC: Stella Dallas 

4:25 CBS: News 

4:30 NBC: Lorenzo Jones 

4:30 Blue: Men of the Sea 

4:30 CBS: Perry Como, Songs 

4:45 CBS: Mountain Music 

4:45 Blue: Sea Hound 

4:45 NBC: Young Widder Brown 

5:00 CBS: Madeleine Carroll Reads 

5:00 Blue: Archie Andrews 

5:00 NBC: When a Girl Marries 

5:15 CBS: Mother and Dad 

5:15 NBC: Portia Faces Life 

5:15 Blue: Dick Tracy 

5:30 CBS: Are You A Genius 

5:30 Blue: Jack Armstrong 

5:30 MBS: Superman 

5:30 NBC: Just Plain Bill 

5:45 CBS: Keep The Home Fires Burning 

5:45 Blue: Captain Midnight 

5:45 NBC: Front Page Farrell 

6:00 CBS: Frazier Hunt 

6:15 CBS: Edwin C. Hill 

6:15 Blue: Lulu Bates 

6:30 NBC: Bill Stern 

6:30 CBS: John B. Kennedy 

6:45 CBS: The World Today 

6:45 Blue: Lowell Thomas 

6:55 CBS: Meaning of the News, Joseph 
C. Harsch 

7:00 NBC: Fred Waring's Gang 

7:00 CBS: I Love A Mystery 

7:15 CBS: Harry James 

7:15 Blue: Men, Machines and Victory 

7:15 NBC: European News 

7:30 CBS: American Melody Hour 

7:45 NBC: Salute to Youth 

8:00 CBS: Lights Out 

8:00 Blue: Earl Godwin, News 

8:00 NBC: Ginny Simms 

8:15 Blue: Lum and Abner 

8:30 CBS: Al Jolson 

8:30 Blue: Noah Webster Says 

8:55 CBS: Cecil Brown 

9:00 MBS: Gabriel Heatter 

9:00 Blue: Famous Jury Trials 

9:00 NBC: Battle of the Sexes 

9:30 CBS: Suspense 

9:30 Blue: Spotlight Bands 

9:30 MBS: Murder Clinic 

9:30 NBC: Passing Parade 

9:55 Blue: Harry Wismer, Sports 

10:00 MBS: John B. Hughes 

10:00 Blue: Raymond Gram Swing 

l 10:00 NBC: Bob Hope 

10:00 CBS: Jazz Laboratory 

; 10:15 Blue: Gracie Fields 

i 10:30 NBC: Beat the Band Hildegarde 

10:30'' I'V Congress Speaks 




DOLL FROM DALLAS... 

Margaret "Honey" Johnson is not the girl 
on our cover, but she has much in common 
with our cover girl, Georgia Carroll. Both 
girls were raised in Dallas, Texas, both 
have blonde hair and blue eyes and both 
have been models and — believe it or not, 
both are five feet, eight inches tall. We 
might add that both are beautiful, but you 
can see that for yourself. 

"Honey" — her real name is Margaret, bat 
nobody ever calls her anything but Honey 
— is now Wally Butterworth's partner on 
the Mutual Take A Card quiz. Not only is 
she a comedienne, but also a writer, a 
singer, an actress, a musician, an arranger 
and sometimes still a model. 

Honey's domestic and professional life 
run hand in hand, since she works on some 
of her shows with her husband, Travis 
Johnson. The Johnsons form half of the 
Song Spinners Quartet on Mutual. They 
have two children, a boy aged three and a 
half and a girl a little less than a year old. 

Born in La Grange, Missouri, "Honey" 
spent most of her early life in Dallas, where 
her father, Dr. Walter Bassett, is pastor of 
the biggest Baptist church in the South. 
He wanted Honey to be a concert pianist and 
her years of music lessons show in the way 
she now plays piano and arranges. 

With her two sisters, one of whom is 
now the famous model Elaine Bassett, 
"Honey" formed a trio on WFAA in Dallas. 
That was her start in radio and the trio 
was a favorite of Dallas listeners, until 
"Honey" decided to come to New York to 
study piano with Josef Lhevinne. 

She might still be studying, or perhaps 
she might be a concert pianist, if it hadn't 
been for Bob Hope. Honey heard that Hope 
was looking for a Southern girl to play as 
a comedy aid. She telephoned Robert and 
began giving him a line in Southern dialect 
which had him choking with laughter. He 
signed her as "Honeychile" on the strength 
of the telephone audition. For several years, 
she was one of the highlights on the Hope 
show until he left for Hollywood. 

Since then, "Honey" has played leads in 
such radio shows as Meet Mr. Meek, the 
Dick Todd show, Vaudeville Theater, the 
Frank Fay show, two years on the Kate 
Smith show and her current Song Spinners 
and the new Take A Card show on Mutual, 
Wednesdays at 8:30 P.M., EWT. 

"Honey's" chief hobby is collecting old, 
out of print books of rare songs. Among 
her collection, one of the largest privately 
owned ones in the East, is one volume 
printed by hand in 1558. 

"Honey," amazingly enough, hasn't a 
Southern drawl. She has a Southern accent 
all right, but she keeps trying to cure her- 
self of talking too fast. She likes tennis, 
golf, swimming, anything that will keep 
her on the move. She makes friends easily, 
always has a crowd around her in the studio 
and, as the photograph of her reveals, she 
has one of the nicest smiles ever to come 
from deep in the heart of Texas. 



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WEDNESDAY 



Eastern War Time 



For Thursday's and Friday's Programs Please Turn to Page 54 



30 Blue: Texas Time 

00 CBS: News 

00 Blue: Breakfast Club 

00 NBC: Everything Goes 

15 CBS: Chapel Singers 

30 CBS: This Life is Mine 

45 CBS: Sing Along 

00 CBS: Valiant Lady 

00 Blue: Isabel Manning Hewson 

45 NBC: Robert St. John 

00 NBC: Lora Lawton 

15 CBS: Kitty Foyle 

15 Blue: News 

15 NBC: The O'Neills 

30 CBS: Honeymoon Hill 

30 Blue: Baby Institute 

30 NBC: Help Mate 

45 CBS: Bachelor's Children 

45 Blue: Gene & Glenn 

45 NBC: A Woman of America 

00 Blue: Breakfast at Sardi's 

00 NBC: Road of Life 

15 CBS: Second Husband 

15 NBC: Vic and Sade 

30 CBS: Bright Horizon 

30 Blue: Hank Lawson's Knights 

30 NBC: Snow Village 

45 CBS: Aunt Jenny's Stories 

45 Blue: Little Jack Little 

45 NBC: David Harum 

00 CBS: Kate Smith Speaks 

00 NBC: Words and Music 

15 CBS: Big Sister 

30 CBS: Romance of Helen Trent 

30 Blue: Farm and Home Hour 

45 CBS: Our Gal Sunday 

00 CBS: Life Can Be Beautiful 

00 Blue: Baukhage Talking 

15 CBS: Ma Perkins 

15 Blue: Edward MacHugh 

30 CBS: Vic and Sade 

45 CBS: The Goldbergs 

45 NBC: Carey Longmire, News 

00 CBS: Young Dr. Malone 

00 NBC: Light of the World 

15 CBS: Joyce Jordan, M.D. 

15 NBC: Lonely Women 

30 CBS We Love and Learn 

30 Blue: James McDonald 

30 NBC: The Guiding Light 

45 CBS: Pepper Young's Family 

45 Blue: Stella linger 

45 NBC: Hymns of All Churches 

00 CBS: News 

00 Blue: Morton Downey 

00 NBC: Mary Marlin 

15 CBS: Joe & Ethel Turp 

15 Blue: My True Story 

15 NBC: Ma Perkins 

30 CBS: Johnny Gart Trio 

30 NBC: Pepper Young's Family 

45 NBC: Right to Happiness 

45 Blue: Ted Malone 

45 CBS: Green Valley, U. S. A. 

00 Blue: Club Matinee 

00 NBC: Backstage Wife 

00 CBS: Your Home Front Reporter 

15 NBC: Stella Dallas 

25 CBS: News 

30 Blue: Men of the Sea 

30 NBC: Lorenzo Jones 

30 CBS: Perry Como, Songs 

45 Blue: Sea Hound 

45 CBS: Mountain Music 

45 NBC: Young Widder Brown 

00 CBS: Madeleine Carroll Reads 

00 Blue: Archie Andrews 

00 NBC: When a Girl Marries 

15 CBS: Mother and Dad 

15 NBC: Portia Faces Life 

15 Blue: Dick Tracy 

30 CBS: Are You a Gonius 

30 Blue: Jack Armstrong 

30 MBS: Superman 

30 NBC: Just Plain Bill 

45 CBS: Keep The Home Fires Burning 

45 Blue: Captain Midnight 

45 NBC: Front Page Farrell 

00 CBS: Quincy Howe, News 

10 CBS: Eric Sevareid 

15 CBS: Today at the Duncans 

45 CBS: The World Today 

45 Blue: Lowell Thomas 

55 CBS: Meaning of the News 

00 NBC: Fred Waring's Gang 

00 CBS: I Love A Mystery 

15 CBS: Harry James 

15 NBC: European News 

30 CBS: Easy Aces 

30 Blue: The Lone Ranger 

45 CBS: Mr. Keen 

45 NBC: H. V. Kaltenborn 

00 CBS: Sammy Kaye Orch. 

00 Blue: Earl Godwin, News 

00 MBS: Cal Tinney 

00 NBC: Mr. and Mrs. North 

15 Blue: Lum and Abner 

30 CBS: Dr. Christian 

30 MBS: Take A Card 

30 Blue: Manhattan at Midnight 

30 NBC: Tommy Dorsey 

55 CBS: Cecil Brown 

00 CBS: The Mayor of the Town 

00 MBS: Gabriel Heatter 

00 Blue: John Freedom 

00 NBC: A Date With Judy 

30 CBS: Jack Carson 

30 Blue: Spotlight Bands 

30 NBC: Mr. District Attorney 

55 Blue: Harry Wismer, Sports 

00 CBS: Great Moments in Music 

00 MBS: John B. Hughes 

00 NBC: Kay Kyser 

00 Blue: Raymond Gram Swing 

15 Blue: Gracie Fields 

30 CBS: Cresta Blanca Carnival 

30 Blue: Alec Templeton 





EXQUISITE CAROLEE ARNOLD, daughter of Mr. & Mrs. Laurence F. Arnold of Newton; 
Illinois, engaged to Corporal Patrick Coldrick of New York City. They make a striking 
couple — Carolee, slim and blonde — Pat, dark-haired, tall. He is now at Fort Eustis, Va. 



CAROLEE CAN BOSS A TRACTOR! Out on 
her father's big Illinois farms, Carolee has 
learned how to run the farm machinery 
with masculine ease — and feminine charm! 
She says, "This year I expect to be a land 
army girl and right on hand to help with 
the crops. I'll be counting on my Pond's 
Cold Cream more than ever to help me 
keep a soft-smooth face while I'm working 
in all that sun and wind!" 



CAROLEE'S RING is set exactly 
like her mother's engagement 
ring. "I wanted it to be just the 
same," she said, "because 
Mother and Dad are the happiest 
people I know." 



NCHANTING is the word for Carolee 
Arnold ! Whether she's gracing a social 
function in Washington, where her 
father served in Congress, or getting 
right down-to-earth on one of the family's 
mid-west farms— her artless, chiseled beauty 
is captivating. Her pale gold hair is like corn- 
silk. Her complexion so wild-rose sweet. 

Carolee says she depends entirely on Pond's 
Cold Cream to help keep her skin dewy -fresh 
and soft. 



This is her Pond's Beauty Care . . . 

Every night and every morning she slides 
Pond's Cold Cream over her face and throat. 
Pats with quick, gentle finger-tips to help 
soften and release dirt and make-up. Tissues 
it all off. "Rinses" with more Pond's to make 
her skin extra soft and clean. Tissues off again. 
"My face feels just gorgeous!'''' she says. 

Yes — it's no accident so many lovely en- 
gaged girls use Pond's Cold Cream. Use Pond's 
yourself — every night and for daytime clean, 
ups! You'll soon see why war -busy society 
women like Mrs. Rodman de Heeren and Mrs. 
Charles Morgan Jr. are so devoted to it! At 
your favorite beauty counter. All sizes are popu- 
lar in price. Ask for the larger sizes — you get 
even more for your money. 








Today — more women use Pond's than 
any other face cream at any price 




R 

M 

53 



r?-^w"<-^— 



THURSDAY 



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Texas Jim 

News 

Breakfast Club 

Everything Goes 

The Sophisticators 

This Life is Mine 

Sing Along 

Valiant Lady 

Isabel Manning Hewson 

Lora Lawton 

Robert St. John 

Kitty Foyle 

News 

The O'Neills 

Honeymoon Hill 

Baby Institute 

Help Mate 

Bachelor's Children 

Gene & Glenn 

A Woman of America 

Mary Lee Taylor 

Breakfast at Sardi's 

Road of Life 

Second Husband 

Vic and Sade 

Bright Horizon 

Hank Lawson's Knights 

Snow Village 

Aunt Jenny's Stories 

Little Jack Little 

David Harum 

Kate Smith Speaks 

Words and Music 

Big Sister 

Romance of Helen Trent 

Farm and Home Hour 

Our Gal Sunday 

Life Can Be Beautiful 

Baukhage Talking 

Sketches in Melody 

Ma Perkins 

Edward MacHugh 

Vic and Sade 

The Goldbergs 

Carey Longmire, News 

Young Dr. Malone 

Light of the World 

Joyce Jordan, M.D. 

Lonely Women 

We Love and Learn 

James McDonald 

The Guiding Light 

Pepper Young's Family 

Stella Unger 

Hymns of All Churches 

Elizabeth Bemis, News 

Morton Downey 

Mary Marlin 

Joe & Ethel Turp 

My True Story 

Ma Perkins 

Johnny Gart Trio 

Pepper Young's Family 

Right to Happiness 

Ted Malone 

Green Valley, U. S. A. 

Your Home Front Reporter 

Club Matinee 

Backstage Wife 

Green Valley, U. S. A. 

Stella Dallas 

News 

Perry Como, Songs 

Men of the Sea 

Lorenzo Jones 

Off the Record 

Sea Hound 

Young Widder Brown 

Madeleine Carroll Reads 

Archie Andrews 

When a Girl Marries 

Mother and Dad 

Portia Faces Life 

Dick Tracy 

Are You a Genius 

Jack Armstrong 

Superman 

Just Plain Bill 

Keep the Home Fires Burning 

Captain Midnight 

Front Page Farrell 

The Three Sisters 

John B. Kennedy 

Bill Stern 

The World Today 

Lowell Thomas 

Meaning of the News 

Fred Waring's Gang 

I Love a Mystery 

Those Good Old Days 

Harry James 

European News 

Easy Aces 

That's Life — Fred Brady 

Mr. Keen 

Earl Godwin, News 

Astor-Ruggles-Auer 

Lum and Abner 

Death Valley Days 

America's Town Meeting 

ALDRICH FAMILY 

Cecil Brown 

Major Bowes 

Gabriel Heatter 

KRAFT MUSIC HALL 

Stage Door Canteen 

Spotlight Bands 

Rudy Vallee 

Harry Wismer, Sports 

The First Line 

Raymond Clapper 

Raymond Gram Swing 

Garry Moore 

Gracie Fields 

March of Time 

Talks 

Ned Calmer, News 

For 




THE GREAT GROUCHO... 

If you know anyone who doesn't like 
Groucho Marx, send him to a psychoanalyst 
— something must be wrong with him. For 
Groucho, with that bounding walk, the re- 
volving eyes, the large stogie, the trick 
mustache is one of the most beloved 
comedians in America. There was a great 
shout of joy when it was announced that he 
planned to star on a radio show, because 
everyone thought they had heard and seen 
the last of the great humorist. A few years 
ago, the Marx Brothers decided to break 
up; Chico took to leading a band, Harpo 
and Groucho took to the hill — for a rest. 
But an old trouper like Groucho couldn't 
stay under cover very long. As head man 
of Blue Ribbon Town, heard on CBS, 10 
P.M. EWT, Saturdays, he's now back send- 
ing us into hysterics again. 

Much has been written about Groucho, 
but here are some fairly new things about 
him that most people don't know. His real 
name is Julius. He earned the nickname of 
"Groucho" as a boy, as he was forever 
imitating crabby old men. Most people 
think he is the oldest of the Marx brothers, 
actually, he's the youngest. And, in typical 
Marx Brothers tradition, being the young- 
est he ran the act and was the official 
executive for the family. 

An Episcopal church choir started 
Groucho out in business. They dismissed 
him from the choir for puncturing the or- 
gan bellows with the alto's hat pin. Groucho 
promptly teamed up with two other incor- 
rigible boys and set out on a vaudeville 
tour at five dollars a week and expenses. 
They were known as the LeRoy Trio. A 
week after the act started, Groucho's voice 
changed and the act was stranded in Denver. 
After that, Groucho was stranded all over 
America until he teamed up with his three 
other brothers and became an overnight 
sensation on Broadway. 

In his early comedy days, Groucho used 
a crepe hair mustache. But one night his 
cigar set fire to it and Groucho has been 
using a smear of grease paint ever since. 
"I know when I've been burned," he says. 
"I catch on quick." 

Groucho's wedding almost gave the on- 
lookers nervous prostration. At a given 
signal, Harpo dived under a rug, Zeppo 
went into a song and dance and Chico kid- 
naped the bride. Mrs. Marx has been living 
in that atmosphere ever since and seems to 
enjoy it. She says she knows what to expect 
of Groucho, which is the worst. 

The Marxes have two children, Miriam 
and Arthur, the latter a well known tennis 
player. For relaxation, Groucho plays ping 
pong with his wife "for the championship 
of the world." She always beats him, which 
makes him sulky for days. Groucho also 
plays tennis, likes to read while playing on 
an ancient guitar. He and his brothers are 
the best of friends and the only reason the 
Marx brothers broke up is because they 
were all tired. 
Saturday's Programs Please Turn to Page 



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Texas Jim 

News 

Breakfast Club 

Everything Goes 

Chapel Singers 

This Life Is Mine 

Sing Along 

Robert St. John 

Valiant Lady 

Isabel Manning Hewson 

Lora Lawton 

Kitty Foyle 

News ' 

The O'Neills 

Honeymoon Hill 

The Baby Institute 

Help Mate 

Bachelor's Children 

Gene & Glenn 

A Woman of America 

Breakfast at Sardi's 

Road of Life 

Second Husband 

Vic and Sade 

Bright Horizon 

Hank Lawson's Knights 

Snow Village 

Aunt Jenny's Stories 

Little Jack Little 

David Harum 

Kate Smith Speaks 

Words and Music 

Big Sister 

Romance of Helen Trent 

Farm and Home Hour 

Our Gal Sunday 

Life Can Be Beautiful 

Baukhage Talking 

Ma Perkins 

Vic and Sade 

The Goldbergs 

Carey Longmire, News 

Young Dr. Malone 

Light of the World 
Joyce Jordan, M.D. 

Lonely Women 

We Love and Learn 

James McDonald 

The Guiding Light 

Pepper Young's Family 

Stella Unger 

Betty Crocker 

Elizabeth Bemis, News 

Morton Downey 

Mary Marlin 

Landt Trio and Curley 

My True Story 

Ma Perkins 

Johnny Gart Trio 

Pepper Young's Family 

Ted Malone 

Right to Happiness 

Green Valley, U. S. A. 

Your Home Front Reporter 

Club Matinee 

Backstage Wife 

Stella Dallas 

News 

Lorenzo Jones 

Men of the Sea 

Perry Como, Songs 

Off the Record 

Sea Hound 

Young Widder Brown 

Madeleine Carroll Reads 

Archie Andrews 

When a Girl Marries 

Mother and Dad 

Portia Faces Life 

Dick Tracy 

If It's a Question of Music 

Jack Armstrong 

Superman 

Just Plain Bill 

Keep the Home Fires Burning 

Captain Midnight 

Quincy Howe, News 

Today at the Duncans 

The World Today 

Lowell Thomas 

I Love a Mystery 

Fred Waring's Gang 

Our Secret Weapon 

European News 

Easy Aces 

The Lone Ranger 

Mr. Keen 

H. V. Kaltenborn 

Earl Godwin, News 

Cal Tinney 

Cities-Service Concert 

Parker Family 

The Thin Man 

Meet Your Navy 

All Time Hit Parade 

Cecil Brown 

Philip Morris Playhouse 

Gang Busters 

Gabriel Heatter 

Waltz Time 

That Brewster Boy 

Spotlight Bands 

Double or Nothing 

People Are Funny 

Dale Carnegie 

Camel Caravan 

John Gunther 

Tommy Riggs, Betty Lou 

Gracie Fields 

Alec Templeton 

Bill Stern 

Elmer Davis 






56 



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SATURDAY 



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News of the World 

News 

News 



CBS: Music of Today 



CBS: 
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CBS: 
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CBS: 
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Odd Side of the News 

Dick Leibert 

United Nations, News Review 

Woman's Page of the Air 
News 

Press News 
Breakfast Club 



NBC: Everything Goes 

CBS: Red Cross Reporter 

CBS: Garden Gate 

CBS: Youth on Parade 

Blue: Isabel Manning Hewson 

NBC: NBC STRING QUARTET 

CBS: U. S. Navy Band 

Blue: Hank Lawson's Knights 

NBC: Nellie Revell 

CBS: Warren Sweeney, News 

Blue: Game Parade 

CBS: Let's Pretend 



CBS: 
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Fashions in Rations 
Little Blue Playhouse 
U. S. Coast Guard Band 

Theater of Today 
Music by Black 
News 



NBC: Consumer Time 

CBS: Stars Over Hollywood 

Blue: Farm Bureau 

NBC: Mirth and Madness 

CBS: Columbia's Country Journa 

Blue: News 

NBC: Beverly Mahr, vocalist 

NBC: Melodies for Strings 

Blue: Vincent Lopez 

CBS: Adventures in Science 

NBC: All Out for Victory 

CBS: Highways to Health 

NBC: War Telescope 

Blue: Singo 

CBS: News 

Blue: Musette Music Box 

NBC: Roy Shield and Co. 

CBS: Serenade from Buffalo 



CBS: 

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Spirit of '43 
Tommy Tucker 



NBC: People's War 



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Of Men and Books 
U. S. Air Force Band 



F. O. B. Detroit 
News 



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Blue: 
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Report from London 
Matinee in Rhythm 



CBS: Bobby Tucker's Voices 



CBS: 
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Calling Pan-America 
Minstrel Melodies 



To be announced 
Horace Heidt 



Doctors at War 
Three Suns Trio 



News, Alex Drier 
Country Editor 



Korn Kobblers 
Gallicchio Orch. 



CBS: People's Platform 

Blue: Message of Israel 

NBC: Religion in the News 

CBS: The World Today 

NBC: Paul Lavalle Orch. 

CBS: Report to the Nation 

Blue: Adventures of the Falcon 

NBC: For This We Fight 

CBS: Thanks to the Yanks 

Blue: Enough and on Time 

NBC: Ellery Queen 

CBS: Crummit and Sanderson 

Blue: Roy Porter, News 

Blue: Boston Pops Orchestra 

CBS: Hobby Lobby 

CBS: Eric Sevareid 

CBS: YOUR HIT PARADE 

NBC: National Barn Dance 

le: Edward Tomlinson 

NBC: Can You Top This 

Blue: Spotlight Band 

CBS: Saturday Night Serenade 



Blue: 
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Blue: 
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John Gunther 
Million Dollar Band 

Talley Time 

Blue Ribbon Town 

Eileen Farrell 
Dixieland Capers 

Ned Calmer, News 



I Dared Not Marry 

Continued from page 21 



more and more of those early years. 

And then after high school and 
business school, after beaus and dates 
and dances, I met Tom Byrnes and 
knew I was in love for the first time. 
He was an orphan, too. With each 
other, we each belonged to somebody. 

Then war came. I stood by and 
watched while Tom gave up his me- 
chanic's job, and enlisted, and I thought 
that I had conquered the old fears com- 
pletely. I stood on the station platform 
the day he went away and watched 
him shoulder his way through the 
barrier, watched his back mingle with 
and disappear into the mass of other 
olive-drab backs moving toward the 
train. Oh, I cried then, but they were 
only the tears that any girl sheds when 
the man she loves goes away — they 
were not signs of unreasoning fear. I 
remembered Mother's words and I 
reasoned against them, and won. 

T WAS happy when Tom came home 
■*■ on his first leave, bringing with him 
the modest little ring which was more 
important and more beautiful to me 
than any prince's jewels of state. I 
thought there was no happiness in the 
whole world like mine when he slipped 
the ring on my finger and whispered 
"That means I've marked you for my 
own, sweetheart. No one will ever take 
you away from me!" You see, there was 
no difference then; just as it had been 
for so long, Tom loved me and I loved 
Tom, and the ring was only a symbol 
of a strengthening of that love and not 
a change in our relationship. 

But now! Tom was back home — he 
was asking me to marry him now — 
now, when he was about to be sent 
away, perhaps for years, perhaps — 
forever. The old, familiar fear came 
rushing back, smothering me so that I 
could not fight it off. 

"... Useless murder . . . Killed your 
father without a trace ..." I could 
hear mother's voice, for years only a 
hazy memory, clear again now and say- 
ing those words. Here was the old 
pattern once more. Here was Betty, 
mourning for Sam, missing in action, 
carrying a child who might never know 
its father. And here was Tom, whom 
I loved above life itself, pleading with 
me to marry him while tke memories, 
long past but indelible, rushed back 
filling my heart with the old fear. 

"Mary — change your mind," he was 
saying. "There's so little time!" 

"When you marry, Tom," I told him, 
"you become a part of someone else. 
When my father died in France, part 
of my mother died with him, and that 
was why she never was the same again. 

"It's not that I'm afraid for myself 
alone, Tom," I cried, feeling a dreadful 
need to make him understand, make 
him believe in the horrible reality of 
my fears. "It isn't fair to you, going 
to some unknown place, into unknown 
danger — and knowing you've left be- 
hind you a wife who can't believe you 
when you say that you'll be back!" 

"You're asking too much, Mary," he 
said, desperately. "You want life tied 
up with ribbons, with nothing ever 
happening and everybody living hap- 
pily ever after. Life isn't like that, 
honey. Why, if there wasn't any war, 
if we just got married, I might leave 
for work someday and not come back. 
We all take chances just being alive." 

"But that's different," I pleaded. "Oh, 
darling, please, please understand!" 



"Maybe you're right," he said slowly. 
"I don't know. I'll see you tomorrow." 

He saw me tomorrow, of course, 
and all the tomorrows of those two 
weeks which seemed at once the long- 
est and the shortest weeks in all of 
time. Oh, we were happy, of course, 
just being together, but it was a quiet, 
restrained sort of happiness. 

We spent as much time as we could 
with Betty, of course, doing all we 
could to help ease her misery. 

"When it comes, it'll be as if Sam 
were here again," she told Tom and 
me one afternoon. "Because the baby 
is Sam, don't you see?" 

I marvelled at her sweet, quiet cour- 
age while I went through my own pri- 
vate torment, for Tom's time with me 
was growing shorter and shorter. Each 
day brought the separation closer to us. 
That night, after Betty had said that 
about the baby really being Sam, I lay 
awake for hours simply because, for 
the first time since the nightmares of 
childhood, I didn't dare to close my 
eyes and go to sleep for fear of the 
horrors that I knew would close in 
around me. I knew that I would dream 
the kind of dreams you can't fight off 
even when you awaken from them — 
that I'd see mother's tragic face once 
more, hear her voice. I knew I'd dream 
of Tom, lying dead, his blood on the 
soil of some strange and lonely place. 
I'd dream of a telegram of my own like 
the one Betty had received, and the 
wrenching, tearing hurt that would 
come after, when I began to realize that 
in all of the world there was no Tom 
anywhere, anymore. 

Next day — two days before Tom was 
to leave — was November 11. That 
always had been a lump-in-the-throat 
sort of day for me, and this time it was 
almost unbearable when, at eleven in 
the morning, we stopped work in the 
office for the customary two minutes 
of silence to honor the dead of this war 
and the last. For me it was two min- 
utes of prayer — and two minutes of 
peace in the whole of the torment that 
the days of Tom's leave had been. 
But when the silence was over I 
remembered Tom's arms around me, 
and my heart cried out, "What right 
have I to deny him?" 

"IT was raining by the time Tom 
*■ picked me up at the office after work. 
We walked silently, side by side. I 
didn't know what he was thinking, but 
there was pain in his eyes. As for me, 
I was sick at the whole idea of this day 
of commemoration. What a mockery 
it was! Services in the churches, 
speeches over the radio, wreaths on 
the tomb of the Unknown Soldier — all 
to commemorate the Armistice of the 
war to end all wars. 

And so we walked along, Tom and I, 
saying nothing. There didn't seem to 
be much to say anymore. Even the 
house, when we got there, was silent. 

Suddenly Tom's hands reached out 
for me in the dimness and his voice 
beat in my ears with a new, impera- 
tive urgency that had something of 
despair in it, too. 

"Mary — Mary, darling — we've been 
over it and over it, but time's so short — 
only two days. Won't you marry me 
now?" 

I stood in the circle of his arms, feel- 
ing the desperate urgency of this last 
plea — and knowing, too, my own an- 
Continued on page 58 



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57 



swering need of him. Two days, we had 
— two days when there would be no 
torturing doubts, no unanswerable 
questions. Two days of heaven, be- 
longing to Tom, safe and secure in his 
arms. Oh — it was worth it! 

"We could go away," I said, slowly. 

His arms tightened, and his voice 
was an incredulous whisper. "You 
mean you will?" 

Of course he didn't understand — but 
I must make him understand. I had to, 
for now, almost mad with my fears of 
the future, I felt that I must, I must 
give to both of us the wonderful gift 
of shared love before we were torn 
apart once again. 

"I can't marry you, Tom. You know 
why — I've told you too often. But — " 
and now it was I who was pleading — 
"we could have our two days together 
anyway. Darling — no one would ever 
know. It would be — it would be right!" 

For a long time he stood motionless. 
Then he stepped away from me. 

"No." 

My eager hands reached out to clutch 
at him, as if I could, by physical con- 
tact, will him to my will. 

"Tom — we must, don't you see? It's 
our little happiness, probably the only 
happiness the world will let us have." 

His voice cut sharply across mine. 
"No, Mary. Mary, if we did that, it 
would be just the same as if we were 
married, don't you see that? Stop to 
think — you'd be my wife. If you can't 
marry me, then how can we do this 
other? I want you, God knows, but 
with us it's got to be all or nothing." 

"But Tom—" 

"No." He turned and picked up his 
hat and overcoat. "There's no use 
talking any more. And there's no use 
drawing out our goodbye, either. I'll 
go on back to camp tomorrow." 

And he left, without looking back. 

I sank down in the chair. I was 
drained of everything, too empty even 
for tears. This was it, then. This was 
the end. For a long time I sat still, not 
even thinking. After a while I reached 
over and turned on the radio. Some 
music — anything — to help me somehow 
face reality of the life that must go on 
without Tom. 

But there was no music. Only voices 
— Armistice Day voices, mouthing 
words that didn't mean anything. Too 
miserable to make the effort to turn 



Continued from page 56 
them off, I just huddled in the chair. 

How long I sat there I don't know. 
But after a while I was aware of a 
man's voice. Not an announcer, not a 
news reporter. Just a man. Somehow 
it was a soothing voice, and uncon- 
sciously I began to listen. 

He was telling a story, this man — his 
own story, the tale of a boy who lived 
in a small town before the last war, 
who fell in love . . . Half dreaming, half 
listening, I saw the little town as he 
described it. It was like the town 
where I was born, the town where 
my mother and father had grown up 
and loved each other and married. It 
all came back to me, the memories of 
that town, clearer than ever. 

The voice on the radio went on, tell- 
ing how he had married the girl he 
loved. We always knew we'd get mar- 
ried, his easy, quiet voice said. So 
when the war came and I enlisted — 
well, we just up and got married sud- 
denly, before I was due to go to camp. 

1SAT up, startled into awareness. I 
knew the story. It was the story in 
back of my own, the story of my father 
and mother. Oh, of course this was a 
play on the radio, but it was like 
mother's and father's story. There must 
have been millions of young men going 
away then, and millions of girls learn- 
ing what heartbreak was, just as my 
father and mother had — just as Tom 
and I were feeling our way through 
our own taste of the hell of war. 

I felt for the first time in my life 
close to my father, for that might easily 
have been his voice coming to me from 
the radio, telling his story. Telling of 
the goodbye at the station — bands play- 
ing, speeches, the brave promises of 
"I'll come back" and "I'll wait for you." 

And then he told of France, and of 
how lonesome he had been for the girl 
who had been his wife so short a time, 
and how he felt when he got her letter 
saying that they were going to have a 
baby. And he told how he wondered, 
all that time, what war was all about, 
and how he came to be there, and what 
he was fighting for. And then, One 
night, standing guard, suddenly I knew 
what it was all about. It was like the 
people who used to live in that wrecked 
village came up and spoke to me. There 
was the French grocer and his wife, 
just like the Barnes back home. There 



HWttHnHHHB 




R 
M 

58 



Vera Vague and Ransom Sherman, two of radio's daffiest laugh- 
provokers, team up for more fun in the new Republic picture 
"Swing Your Partner," which boasts a full cast of radio stars. 



was the pastor of the church, and you 
could tell just looking at him that he 
preached as good a sermon as old Dr. 
Craig. They were like my own people. 
And I knew then I was fighting for all 
of 'em — all over the world, the little 
people and their right to live their lives 
and love each other and have their 
children. 

Yes, it could have been my father 
talking. I'd never known him. But he'd 
have felt that way. I knew it. 

The man was telling then about how 
he'd got a letter just before they went 
over the top — a letter telling him that 
he was a father. It was so real to me 
that I rejoiced with him at the news, 
and then felt his mingled fear and 
exultation when the drive was on. He 
and two others had fallen into a shell- 
hole, he said, and after a little some- 
thing landed, and he didn't see any- 
thing else. Nobody ever found the 
two who had been with him. They got 
themselves nice plain crosses because 
nobody could identify them. But I — I 
came back. 

Suddenly I put my head down on my 
arms and wept. Difficult, hurting, 
tears. And tried to stifle the tears, too, 
because I didn't dare to miss a word. 

The war was over, he was saying. 
I never did go back to my home town 
and Mary and little Mary. Not that I 
didn't want to. But there was work to 
be done — everywhere. Hard work, 
with hardly anybody to listen to me. 

For I became a crusader, a kind of 
evangelist. At first nobody was in- 
terested. "The war's over and what 
good did it do?" they'd say. "Men 
killed, and all for nothing." And when 
they saw this war coming they'd say, 
"So here it is again, with more boys 
killed and it's useless murder." Well, 
we didn't do a good enough job, that's 
all. ■ And now the youngsters were 
starting out again, and this time they'd 
finish it. They'd do it for the little 
people all over the world. 

The room was completely dark. I 
felt as if I were all alone in the world, 
for that moment, but I was not afraid. 
There were no fears left in me, because 
this man had explained what was in 
the heart of a soldier and in the heart 
of a world fighting for freedom. And 
my heart seemed to stop perfectly 
still, and then beat again with a new, 
steadier rhythm, as the voice on the 
radio spoke the final words. 

My name — well, it's Joe, like I said. 
But they don't call me that. They 
carved out some nice words on a block 
of stone. The words say, "Here lies — 
in honored glory — an American Soldier 
— known but to God." 

There was silence. 

The tears that came now were heal- 
ing, cleansing, unashamed. They asked 
forgiveness and they found peace. 
There was no longer any doubt or 
any fear. For there was a reason — as 
Tom said, as the voice on the radio said. 
Bigger than any of us, and yet in the 
heart of each of us. My mother hadn't 
understood. But Betty understood, and 
others did, and now at last I did. And 
somehow I couldn't help but feel that 
mother did, too, after all this time. 

I got up. The voice was gone now. 
But there was a singing inside me. I 
snatched up my coat and ran, bare- 
headed, out into the rain. The streets 
were dark and almost deserted. Way 
down at the end of the block, there 
was a light in Mrs. Hewlett's boarding 
house, in what was Tom's room. A 
special license, he'd said. Happy and 
unafraid, I ran on toward the light. 



&um-€f loss fucks ifcu ufi . 





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59 



Please Take Me Back 



the girls' little murmurs of false 
sympathy, crowned by one from 
Sandra that was more than I could 
take. 

"It's perfectly all right," she said 
sweetly. "The entertainers always 
wear evening clothes. And Auntie 
asked you here to sing for the guests." 

My fists clenched at my sides. "No, 
she didn't." I marched over and picked 
up my shawl, flung it about my shoul- 
ders. "And anyway, I shan't be here!" 

I walked out of that room. I tried to 
walk down the long carpeted stairway, 
but before I reached the bottom I was 
running. I dragged the front door open 
and raced across the lawn. 

1" DIDN'T know Laurence had fol- 
*■ lowed me until I felt his hands on 
my shoulders jerking me to a stand- 
still. "Franny, stop! What are you 
doing, plunging along like a crazy 
person, tearing your dress . . ." 

"I want to tear it," I cried out at 
him. "I hate it! And I hate Sandra 
for tricking me into wearing it!" 

"Frances!" Laurence spoke sternly. 
"Nothing Sandra could do would jus- 
tify your speaking that way." 

"Oh, wouldn't it!" The tears were 
streaming down my face, but I didn't 
care. "Tell me one thing. Did she ask 
you to tell me this was a canoe party?" 

"No, but . . ." 

"There! She's always made my 
clothes look funny, but this was the 
best laugh yet!" 

Laurence drew his handkerchief 
from his pocket and wiped my face. 
"Let's look at this straight," he said 
. slowly. "I know Sandra's thoughtless 
sometimes, but maybe she didn't intend 
this. Perhaps she did remind me to 
tell you. These days with the new 
Wing opening, I've probably forgotten 
a million things people told me to 
do. Give her a break, Franny." 

"Why should I?" I stared at him 
dully, still hardly able to believe that 
he was defending Sandra. "Why are 
you asking me to give her a break, 
when she's never given me one in 
all the four years she's been in town?" 

"That's a long story, Franny," he 
said gently. "And some of it I haven't 
the right to tell." He had taken my 
hand and placed it in the crook of his 
arm. Now, unwillingly at first, I was 
being led along the moonlit road. "The 
point is, Franny, that when a person 
is inconsiderate of others, it's a safe 
bet they've been pretty badly hurt 
themselves. Sandra can't even remem- 
ber her father, and there were a couple 
of other divorces before her mother 
married my uncle. It must have been 
a tough life for a kid. The way I 
figure it, Sandra needs everything we 
can give her to make up for the kind- 
ness and affection she missed." 

I wasn't really listening. All I knew 
was that he was taking Sandra's part! 
This was a fine outcome of the eve- 
ning which was to mean so much to 
me. I swallowed and said, "I see." 

He said, "Do you, Franny?" He took 
my two hands and stood looking 
gravely down into my face. 

. I couldn't stand the touch of his 
hands on mine. I'd surely weep again. 
I drew my hands away and told him 
brightly, "Of course. And now you 
must go back. Please give your mother 
my apologies. Goodnight." 
1 It was his father's chauffeur who 

came in the morning to take my brother 
CO 



Continued from page 49 

and me to the hospital for the opening. 
I could hardly expect Laurence to 
come for me himself at a time like 
this, but my throat was tight and dry 
as I got into the car. I didn't see how 
I could sing this morning. 

But once I was standing on the im- 
provised platform, looking into the 
children's faces, I felt better. I had 
sung to the children every Saturday 
morning for years. Here I felt sure of 
my place, my power, and myself. 

If I kept my eyes on the children, 
I could forget the crowd, the row of 
frock-coated dignitaries — and Sandra 
in a place of honor among them. 

I looked into the face of little Bart 
Thurston and I sang him the story of 
the Big Brown Bear. I watched his 
blue eyes widen and grow brilliant 
with delight, and I put everything I 
had into the final glorious "Woof!" 

And then I turned away from the 
microphone and found my hands in 
Laurence Martin's. "You were won- 
derful, Frances," he whispered. "Listen 
to those kids!" 



cm&cm&C&C833CS33 



JWerciful <©ob, toe prap ©hp blessing 
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ebil toithout hatreb. When righteous- 
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torp, map our lobeb ones return to their 
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Broadcast Over Mutual 



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They would not stop until I had 
slipped out of the door so that Dr. 
William could introduce the Governor. 

Laurence followed. "Shouldn't you 
go back?" I asked him. 

"No, this is more important," he 
said, speaking rapidly, as I had never 
heard him. "I've been thinking about 
it for a long while, and it's time to 
get it settled. Franny, you're free 
from responsibility, now your brother 
is working. Your life's ahead of you. 
Have you thought what you'd do?" 

In spite of the sick doubts of the 
night my hopes came rushing up again. 
I said, "Yes, Laurence, I have, but 
I don't know . . ." 

"Well, I know. Stay here, Franny! 
Come on and get in the old fight!" 

"You mean, go into nursing?" 

"Yes, and more than that." His blue 
eyes were shining, holding mine. 
"Nursing is basic, of course, but with 
what you've got besides, Franny, there's 
no limit . . ." His voice was husky. 



and I was suddenly certain that my 
hopes had not been wrong. "Franny, 
look, I don't want to rush you into 
this. You're young, you haven't had 
a chance to choose, really. I shouldn't 
try to influence you by telling you how 
much I — I want you here — " He broke 
off, his fingers rumpling his blond hair. 

It was then that Sandra spoke beside 
us. "I hope I'm not interrupting any- 
thing important." 

I wanted to shout at her, "You are! 
You stopped him saying the most 
important thing a girl ever hears from 
any man!" 

But Sandra had slipped her arm into 
his and smiled possessively up into his 
face. "The idea seems to be that the 
Governor might find it strange if you 
didn't turn up to see him to his car, 
after missing his speech — " 

And he let her lead him away, his 
face as dazed as I felt. 

My daze lasted twenty-four hours. 
I sang at my housework, I forgot to 
put baking powder in the cake I made, 
and when Ronny came home dripping 
with rain I was amazed because I'd 
thought the weather perfect. For there 
was only one thought in me: any min- 
ute the phone would ring and Lau- 
rence would finish what he had started 
to say in the hospital corridor. 

But it didn't ring. Sunday passed 
without a word from Laurence. The 
doubts came back, one by one, stealth- 
ily. I remembered that he had left me 
willingly to go with Sandra. The words 
he had said in her defense the night 
of the party echoed in my ears with 
a new ominous ring: "Sandra needs 
everything we can give her to make 
up for the kindness and affection she 
missed . . ." Everything. What did 
he mean by everything? And then at 
the end he'd said, "I hoped you'd un- 
derstand, once you knew how things 
were . . ." What did he want me to 
understand? 

I couldn't stand the doubts any 
longer. I couldn't bear another night 
of sickening somersaults from hope 
into despair. I would go and see him, 
learn once and for all where I stood. 

Gwynnie Jones, the operator at the 
reception desk, hailed me as I went 
into the hospital. "You're in the wrong 
pew. Registration's over at the Nurses' 
Building." 

"I'm not registering," I told her. "At 
least not now. But — how did you 
know?" 

She winked. "A very big little 
birdie told me. He said be sure not 
to let you slip through our fingers 
when you came in. It's the last thing 
he told me before he left — " 

"Left?" My heart had come alive. 

VES, for the North Lake. Some 
*■ trapper's kid way up at the upper 
end of nowhere seems to have diph- 
theria, and of course . . ." 

She chattered on, giving me the 
hospital gossip I had always loved, 
but today I didn't wait to hear it. 
had my answer. I ran out the great 
door and fairly skipped down thej 
broad wide steps outside, aware of | 
nothing but the glowing future ahead. 
I did not even see anyone until I heard 
Sandra speak and realized that her 
slender, tall figure blocked my path. 

As if she read my mind, she asked, 
"On your way to register?" 

I nodded, but I did not want to talk 
Continued on page 62 



i : 







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Challenged by the clinging fashions of 1931, 
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Bustles. Wasp waists. "Cigarette silhouette," 
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61 



about it to her. 

But she placed a hand on my arm. 
"What's the rush? Once you're signed 
up, you're in for a long time." 

"What do you mean?" I stared sus- 
piciously into her eyes. 

"Why, it's hard work, isn't it?" 
Those eyes were innocently wide as 
she smiled at me. "They say nurs- 
ing calls for the muscles of a horse 
and the nerves of a cow. I don't qual- 
ify, apparently. For Larry can't see 
me going into training." 

"Did you want to?" I asked, amazed. 

She shrugged. "I had the romantic 
notion that I should share his whole 
life, do you see?" 

I didn't. I wouldn't! I asked flatly, 
"Why should you?" 

"I shouldn't, I gather. The idea 
seems to be that a doctor should come 
home and find a quite different world 
waiting for him. And in that case, I 
think I'll make Larry rather a good 
wife, don't you?" 

I don't know what I answered. Up 
to that final word of hers I had held 
to my new certainty; I had not let 
myself be frightened by the subtle 
triumph of her smile. But when she 
said that word, I knew at once that my 
hopes had been absurd, based on noth- 
ing. This was what Laurence had 
wanted me to understand. He might 
ask me to share his workaday world 
of the hospital, but he did not think 
me worthy to entertain his guests, to 
be the mistress of his great house and 
the mother of his children. 

Well, I wouldn't stay in either of 
his worlds, then! 

It was hardly a thought that pos- 
sessed me. I wasn't capable of think- 
ing, as I ran home that day. I was 
responding to an instinct as primitive 
as a fleeing animal's. I wanted only 
to hide my wounds from the sight of 
curious eyes. But home was only the 
first stop. I must get clear away from 
Stillmeadow. Where, I didn't know. 

HP HE phone was ringing when I got in. 
■*■ I picked it up, my heart beating even 
then with hope that Laurence would 
tell me something that would turn the 
scene on the hospital steps into an 
unreal dream. But I heard a man's 
voice that was quite strange to me. 

"This is Barney Whiteman," he 
began. "Name mean anything to 
you?" 

I had to admit it didn't. And after 
he had translated his odd jargon into 
ordinary speech I gathered that he 
had heard my songs at the opening 
of the Children's Wing. "Understand, 
it's not your voice that got me on 
the phone. It's a nice sweet little voice 
but it'll take a lot of coaching before 



Continued from page 60 
you give Lily Pons any worry. No, 
it was the noise those kids made that 
got me wondering if I couldn't sell 
you for a thirteen-weeks tryout on 
a new kids' radio program coming up. 
How's about it?" he asked. "Want to 
come to Chicago and see if I can build 
you into something?" 

I began to laugh. I guess he thought 
I was going to be difficult and tem- 
peramental, having hysterics over the 
phone the first time he ever talked 
to me. But it seemed so funny that 
this call should have come just when 
I was wondering where to go. I knew 
now. "I'll be there tonight," I told him, 
tears streaming down my face. 

That was how I left Stillmeadow. 

I went to dress designers who 
brought out the lines of my figure 
with clothes as startling but far more 
subtly effective than that first pathetic 
red evening dress, and I wore them 
with the assurance I had lacked that 
awful night. For now I had been walk- 
ing many miles up and down plat- 
forms and stairways learning the art 
of moving, breathing, of getting up 
from chairs and sitting down in them. 
All this besides my voice lessons and 
my studies of dramatic technique. 

And always someplace in the back- 
ground or beside me at the table 
there was Barney. He took me to res- 
taurants and night clubs where col- 
umnists would see us, he told me who 
to smile at and who responded better 
to a haughty stare. He arranged pub- 
licity incidents that happened so natur- 
ally that even I was fooled. 

He had not been so hopeful in the 
first weeks. My voice had come out 
very small and scared and thin, I could 
not swallow the lump of misery in 
my throat. Everything was so strange 
- — the inexorable studio clock, the dead 
cold microphones, the sound engineers 
behind their plate glass windows 
frowning over their dials — Oh, it was 
a lonely nightmare, until Barney 
thought of the most obvious solution. 
From the day he brought in a studio 
audience of children, the program was 
a success. Within a month an evapo- 
rated milk company had become our 
sponsor. After that, my salary went 
into a dizzying spiral upward. 

I suppose it would sound better to 
say that the money meant nothing 
to me. But it would not be true, and 
I want this to be an honest record. 
No, I had been poor too long, and 
poverty does bad things to the human 
soul. I could not forget Sandra's taunt- 
ing, scornful smile. 

Oh, I made sure Stillmeadow didn't 
forget me. Barney took care of that. 
Station WSTM had been carrying my 
program for over a year now, and 



R 

w 
62 



SEPTEMBER RADIO MIRROR 
On Sale Wednesday, August I Ith 

To help lighten the burden that has been placed upon 
transportation and handling facilities by the war effort 
we are scheduling coming issues of RADIO MIRROR to 
appear upon the newsstands at slightly later dates than 
heretofore. RADIO MIRROR for September will go on 
sale Wednesday, August II. On that date your news- 
dealer will be glad to supply you with your copy. The 
same circumstances apply also to subscriptions. While 
all subscription copies are mailed on time, they may 
reach you a little later than usual. Please be patient. 
They will be delivered just as soon as prevailing condi- 
tions permit. 




once in a while Barney would bring 
me a sheaf of evaporated milk labels 
on which were printed in cramped 
young letters the names and addresses 
of children I had known. 

I'd look at those names and I'd tell 
myself, "Every one of those means a 
home where there's a book with my 
picture on the cover — "Franny Lane's 
Songs for Singing Time." 

And I'd try to gloat. But when I 
saw the label that gave the address 
as Ward A-4, Children's Wing, Martin 
Medical Center, I guess I lost the art 
of gloating. I just cried. I sat there 
with the label in my hand and won- 
dered if Laurence had bought the radio 
for the children to hear. 

DARNEY came into my apartment 
■*-* and found me sitting at my window 
in the dark, looking far down at the 
dimmed-out streets, at the faint tiny 
glow of the traffic lights on the pave- 
ment wet with autumn rain. He came 
and drew the curtains, switched on 
lights, and leaned over my shoulder 
to read the label in my hand. 

"How's about a little trip back 
there?" he asked me suddenly. 

I jumped. But before I could speak, 
he went on, "I been thinking of start- 
ing a series of your programs broad- 
cast from hospital wards, and the 
Martin Medical Center would make a 
swell start." 

I shook my head. "I'll never go 
back there. Never." 

"Not .even as an extra special favor 
to old Barney?" 

I looked up at him. He was stand- 
ing there, his thick figure set so solidly 
on my rug that he looked as if he 
were rooted in the white lamb's wool. 
That was Barney — reliable, a man to 
lean on, to help you through anything. 
But I had never seen him with this 
expression on his face before, his 
brown eyes liquid and soft. 

I asked, wonderingly, "Why a favor 
to you, Barney?" 

He said, "Well, that was where you 
sang when I heard you first. And I've 
never been the same since." He laughed, 
but his round face didn't look mirth- 
ful. "I dragged you out of that whistle 
stop, but you didn't come all the way. 
Most of you's still back in Still- 
meadow." 

When I tried to interrupt indig- 
nantly, he raised a big, thick-fingered 
hand. "It's the truth, baby. You've 
shot ahead in radio, but not because 
you liked the game. You've just been 
trying to prove something to the folks 
back home." 

"Maybe you're right," I told Barney 
slowly. "But I still won't go home." 

"Not even for my sake?" 

I tipped my head, looking at him 
questioningly. 

He said, "I'll never have a chance 
with you till you go back there and 
get someone out of your system." 

"A chance with you, Barney?" 

"That's what I said." His discom- 
fort would have been funny if it hadn't 
been so touching. "Didn't you know 
I want to sign you for a life contract?" 

"Why — Barney — " I was genuinely 
startled. 

"I don't get this surprise act," he 
said gruffly. "Haven't I taken time 
over you I never gave to any of my 
other talent, built you up till you're 
the biggest value on any daytime 
program?" 

"I appreciate all you've done," I 
said gently. "But as to marrying — " I 
hesitated, and something inside me be- 
Continued on page 64 






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Continued j 
gan to hurt. I felt choked up. 

"That's what I say," Barney said 
urgently. "You've got to see that guy 
before you'll be rid of him for good." 
"All right," I said slowly. "I'll go." 
And that was how it happened that I 
went back to Stillmeadow. Barney 
arranged everything, and the publicity 
was even better than he had hoped. 
Stillmeadow was more than glad to 
go halfway. I had had a letter from 
the Medical Center Auxiliary saying 
a reception committee, headed by a 
Mrs. Sprague, would meet me. 

I WAS prepared. I had memorized 
the speech I would make in answer 
to the greeting of the chairman of the 
committee, and I had been repeating 
it for the last twenty miles: 

"Mrs. Sprague, you and your towns- 
people quite overwhelm me — " 

I had said that much when I really 
saw Mrs. Sprague, and then I stopped 
in mid-sentence. Mrs. Sprague was 
Sandra! 

I had been terrified of meeting 
Mrs. Laurence Martin, Junior. But 
now I wouldn't. I was sure of that. 
If she had not married Laurence, was 
it because of me? Was it because he 
would not marry anyone else? 

I realized that Mrs. Sprague was 
looking a little apprehensive, a little 
pinched with tension about the nose 
and mouth. I smiled brilliantly at her. 
"This is a real reunion, isn't it?" I asked 
sweetly. And her relief was funny. 

I had never felt so sure of myself 
as in that moment. I blessed Barney 
for making me come back. Why, 
Sandra was just a stiff, unsure nobody, 
overdressed and selfconscious as any 
small-town matron. 

Triumph was sweet. It was wonder- 
ful to step out and go up the walk 
to Dr. William's house which was 
ugly and ornate and not as big as I 
remembered it. I sat before my dress- 
ing table in the best guest room while 
a maid brushed my hair and I looked 
out the window across the sweep of 
broad lawn to the twin mansion of 
Dr. Laurence Martin, Senior, and I 
remembered the night I had run across 
that lawn through the June evening 
two years ago. "Poor little Franny 
Lane," I whispered to the memory, 
"we'll make it up to you tonight." 

The reception would be the biggest 
social affair that had ever taken place 
in Stillmeadow. Trust Sandra to make 
the most of a celebrity. And to have 
her the one to give this party for me 
made the picture perfect. 

When I started down the stairs and 
saw all the faces turned to watch me 



rom page 62 
make my entrance, I knew this was 
my moment. For one of them was the 
face of Laurence Martin. 

My eyes met his and I read the 
message in them that I had dreamed 
so long of reading, and I knew why 
I had come. Laurence loved me. 

But I didn't stop. My feet went 
down the stairs in unbroken rhythm, 
and I didn't let my heart miss a beat. 
I kept on drawing steady deep lung- 
fuls of air and pushing it out from 
my diaphragm in firm clear words of 
greeting. I held to the knowledge 
that I was no longer the little Franny 
Lane who had to hope against hope 
for a kind word or an approving glance. 
I told myself that it was only natural 
that Laurence should love me. Why 
shouldn't he? Wasn't I even richer 
and more famous now than he? 

I wanted to walk up to him and put 
my hands in his, but I didn't. I waited 
for him to come to me, and when he 
asked to see me after the reception I 
told him coolly that I thought I could 
arrange it. And when Sandra led me 
off to meet her husband, a middle- 
aged banker who had come to town 
after I left, I went with her. Though 
the evening seemed to last forever, I 
took care not to glance too often in 
search of Laurence. 

I answered every question I was 
asked. I had never given as generous 
interviews to any magazines as to 
each awed matron of that town. 

Why not? I didn't want anyone in 
Stillmeadow to miss a single detail of 
my success. And most of all 
wanted Laurence to be sure that I 
was a girl any man would be lucky 
to get. I wanted that quite clear be- 
fore I walked out into the moonlight 
with him. This walk would be different 
from the other ones we'd taken. 

It was. To begin with, Laurence did 
not talk. 

I said, "Well, has the new Wing been 
a big success?" 

He said, "If success means money 
to you, then it hasn't. It has a thun- 
dering deficit this year." 

"Well, perhaps I can help you lift it 
tomorrow at the Benefit," I told him 
lightly. 

"I'm sure you will," he said. His 
voice was stiffly formal. "I hope you 
know how grateful the Board is, and 
the town." 

"I've been duly notified of that by 
your uncles," I told him, trying to 
laugh. "And by the Mayor. But how 
about yourself, Laurence? Weren't 
you a little pleased that I wanted to 
come back and sing again?" 

Continued on page 66 






WOMEN WILL HELP STAFF 
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At radio control towers of airbases on both coasts, 
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Full information is contained in the new booklet, "How 
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to Radio Mirror Magazine, 205 East 42nd St., New York, 
N. Y., for your copy of this booklet. 





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a 
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I was born in the month of. 



NAME 

ADDRESS 

CITY STATE. 



R 

M 

65 







1 



*<** Kleenex 

Mtt> WN k*25 WNfc EOttO 

for eacV\ statement we ipuWvsYx 
on vg\vy you \\V.e VAeenex* T\ssues 
better than qnx otner brand. 
f^Adress-. Kleenex, 9\9 ^.VAkWaan k\ie 
CKvcaap.VA 





Jfn no fisherman! 



Why -fish -for tissues so hard to get 

out of ordinary boxes? With 
KLEENEX* it's pull a tissue and 
up pops another, ready for use.' 
{from a Utter by M. T. T., Long Island, N. Y.) 







Continued from page 64 



IF YOUR DEALER 15 OUT 

of Kleenex, please be ' 

PATIENT -HE'LL HAVE SOME SHORTLY. 
QUANTITY IS SOMEWHAT CURTAILED, 

BUT WE ARE DETERMINED, 
REGARDLESS OF WHAT OTHERS DO, 
TO MAINTAIN Kte6N6X QUALITY 
IN EVERY PARTICULAR! 



VITfLES 

FOR 
VICTORY 

No more 
stained 
dish towels 
at canning time 
'since I wipe the top of each filled 
jar with clean, absorbent KLEENEX! 
(from a letter by C. F. C, Prineville, Ore.) 




"I was," he said slowly. "I can't tell 
you how glad. In fact, though the 
days usually haven't enough hours 
for what we have to do, the last month 
has gone by in slow motion. But — " 
He stopped and stood there in the road, 
his hand rumpling his light hair in 
the old familiar gesture. 

"But what?" I asked, unable to keep 
from asking. "But what, Laurence? 
When I saw you first today, you looked 
so glad to see me. I thought — " 

I couldn't go on. I had to hold on 
to some of my pride. 

He said, "I don't know what you 
thought, Frances. But I know what I 
thought, and I guess we were both 
wrong." 

"Laurence!" My voice was like a 
wail. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean I don't feel as if you were 
the Franny Lane who went away." 

"But of course I'm not!" I cried out. 
"I've changed, I've grown up, I've 
succeeded! You just don't know me." 

"You're right." He shook his head. 
"And I'm afraid I don't want to. I'd 
rather keep the Frances Lane I re- 
member." 

Oh, that was what I had come back 
to! The first night in Stillmeadow I 
was doing as I had done so many 
other nights there. I crept to bed to 
hide my wounds from the world. Of 
course I hid them better. I finished 
my walk with dignity, I excused my- 
self with the explanation that I must 
rest my voice for tomorrow. For of 
course I would sing, would finish my 
schedule as planned. My career was 
all I had — my career and Barney! I 
might as well take the logical step 
and marry him. 

IT was the hardest thing I ever did, 
-*- to enter that hospital again, to see 
Laurence standing at the back of the 
ward when I went to the microphone. 

But then I looked into the children's 
faces, and I picked out a tiny girl with 
a pointed white small face and I looked 
into her big eyes circled with blue 
shadows and sang to her. Oh, I would 
make these children forget their 
troubles even if I could not forget my 
own. And even when I saw Laurence 
disappear through the door in .the 
middle of my story of the Big Brown 
Bear, my voice did not waver. I 
watched the little girl's eyes light up 
with joy as I gave my last big satis- 
fying "Woof!" 

The children screamed and laughed 
and beat their feet and hands on floor 
and bedsteads, and the old familiar 
tightness clutched my throat. 

A nurse came up and whispered that 
I was wanted in another ward. I fol- 



lowed her, still dazed with the new 
knowledge that had come to me, that 
had eased the self-pitying misery in 
my heart. She led me along a row of 
beds empty except for one in which 
a tiny figure lay hunched and still, 
his eyes turned to the wall. 

"He wouldn't let us take him to the 
concert," she told , me. "We thought 
maybe you could do something for 
him. He was in an accident that killed 
his mother, but his injuries are prac- 
tically healed. It just looks as though 
he couldn't take the loss of his mother 
so soon after his father went down 
on the Lexington." 

I gazed in horror at the child, as 
unchildlike as a stone statue. "Is he 
always like this?" I whispered. 

She nodded. "He hasn't even cried 
once. It would be better if he did." 

Then suddenly my horror left me. 
For I knew what I must do. Without 
even thinking what to sing, I started 
singing to that boy. Very softly, I 
began the sweetest lullaby I knew. 

As I sang, the unbearable sadness 
and sweetness of life brought my own 
tears to my eyes and they flowed 
down my cheeks. I remembered the 
beginning of my own singing when I 
was only a child myself and sang to 
comfort my little brother in his long 
hopeless hours. All the tenderness I 
had felt for him I put into the song 
I sang to this child. 

Then suddenly I saw his face turn 
from the wall. He was looking at me 
with great gray, black-lashed eyes. 
His thin tight mouth was moving a 
little, tightening convulsively, his lips 
stiffened and quivered, and then sud- 
denly he was crying — desperately, 
stormily, his arms held out to me. And 
I had taken his thin little figure in 
my arms and held it close against my 
breast, feeling his tears hot on my 
neck, murmuring senseless and inco- 
herent words that were only sounds 
meant to comfort a child. 

After long minutes of slowly ebbing 
sobs, the little body relaxed and I laid 
him against the pillow, deeply asleep. 
I stood up, cramped and weary in all 
my muscles, and sighed. My feet were 
heavy as I turned to leave. 

But I stopped, with a little gasp. 
Laurence was in the door, watching, 
his eyes grave on me — and sweet. In 
them was the look I had longed to see. 
His smile yesterday when I arrived 
had been but a dim foretaste of the 
radiance in his blue eyes now. His 
arms came out to me, and I went into 
them. He whispered against my hair, 
after a long moment, "You are the 
same. You have come home, after all." 

I whispered, "I have come home." 



1 

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66 




NADINE CONNOR, lyric soprano star of the Metropolitan Opera, and 
featured soloist with Raymond Paige's 40-piece Young Americans 
orchestra on Salute to Youth, heard over NBC Tuesdays at 7:30 P.M., 
EWT. Born in Los Angeles, Nadine still regards that city as her home 
town, though she lives in New York during the musical season. Since 
her graduation from high school in Compton, Calif., she has studied 
voice and consistently won every singing contest in sight. A series of 
Hollywood Bowl appearances led to her radio debut when a network 
manager promptly signed her for a commercial show. Before long she 
was guesting on the Bing Crosby, Nelson Eddy and other air shows. 
An audition for Bruno Walter brought her an invitation to make her 
Metropolitan debut in "The Magic Flute." In private life, she's known 
as Mrs. Lawrence Heacock, wife of a noted West Coast physician. 




Toward Victory 

Continued from page 38 

baby, to care for the sick and wounded. 

Then I turned to my farm with a 
vengeance, realizing the feeding of 
these people in sudden emergency must 
also rest with me. I bought pigs and 
more pigs, cows and chickens. I planted 
truck gardens and learned not only 
how to milk cows but to churn butter. 

Of course, I realize all women can't 
be farmers or defense workers, but 
think of those wonderful organizations 
that are crying out not only for young 
women but women in their middle 
years, the Red Cross, the Nurse's Aid, 
the Canteens and the U.S.O. rooms. 
The woman with time and leisure, who 
goes on with her bridge playing and 
parties salving her conscience with gifts 
of money, is the real slacker in this 
war. "Put me to work," should be her 
motto, sincerely meant and put into 
immediate action. 

THAT such organizations as the 
WAACS, the SPARS, the WAVES 
are open to young women of America 
should inspire a prayer of thanks. For 
years women have struggled to attain 
a place, not just of equality with man's 
place, but of equal usefulness in good 
citizenship. With humbleness and grati- 
tude we should now accept' our Gov- 
ernment's offer. In fact, it's as much 
the duty of a woman, who is free, as a 
man, to enlist in one of these branches 
of the service. To take a man's place, 
one who is so badly needed in combat 
action is an honor, a privilege and a 
duty. I, who have no son to give, feel 
just as proud of my daughter's con- 
tribution to the war effort as mothers of 
sons must feel, for through her efforts, 
boys are freed for important duties 
elsewhere. 

There should be no question of sacri- 
fice. At the time Frances closed her 
Santa Barbara studio to enter a de- 
fense plant, she was obtaining promi- 
nent recognition in her work as a 
sculptor after years of work and study 
here and abroad. Her monument, the 
memorial to the Army and Navy Nurses 
in the Arlington National Cemetery at 
Washington, D. C, was outstanding 
among successful sculptors. Other 
young women I know have made equal 
and even greater adjustments in their 
lives and not one of them deem it a 
sacrifice to serve their country in these 
branches of service. 

I consider my work on the radio 
important as a morale builder. Since 
the war began I have never gone on 
the air without first offering this silent 
prayer — "Dear God, please let what 
we're going to do take someone's mind 
off troubles and heartaches. Let them 
be released through our efforts." 

Sometimes my mind goes back to the 
days when Will Rogers and I were 
making pictures together and I often 
wonder what Will's reactions would 
have been to this awful struggle. I 
think I know, in part, what Will would 
have done. I really believe had he 
been spared he certainly would have 
helped to lighten the grim side of war; 
surely he would have done more than 
just his bit. At any rate, I know how 
proud he would have been of women in 
America today. 

We have, each one. found our place, 
we are seeing our duty and we are 
performing it. American womanhood 
has finally come into its own through 
this adversity and sorrow. I. for one. 
am proud to be a part of it. 




You've had your share of worries lately . . . what 
with shortages and soaring prices, saving 'points' 

and stretching pennies . . . it's a full-time job just 

to keep your family clothed and fed. 

Then there's the weekly wash. More than likely 
you're doing it yourself. And now — the last 

straw — you can't always get your favorite 

laundry soap! 

It's hard to be patient about these things. But — 
please believe that the makers of Fels-Naptha 
are doing everything they can to keep you 
supplied. Working day and night 
at it. If your grocer doesn't have 
Fels-Naptha Soap in stock today- 
he will have it soon. So 
please keep on asking. 







FELS-NAPTHASOAP-banishesTattle-Tale Gray* : 



67 




CAN SAFELY, 
SUCCESSFULLY, 



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name BALL . . . BALL IDEAL or BALL Mason jars with VACU-SEAL or 
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I 

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She Loved Him 
Enough — 

Continued from page 37 

day he took her to a dance at one of the 
hotels. She never had gone out alone 
with a boy before. She wasn't quite at 
home in her first evening dress. Frank's 
tuxedo awed her somewhat. She didn't 
have a chance with all the girls who 
swarmed around Frank and turned ar- 
rogant young backs upon her. And 
Frank, caught up in the gay current 
these girls created, soon forgot her for 
long stretches of time. During one of 
these stretches she went home. 

When Julie, who also was there, told 
Frank Nancy had gone he was furious. 
"She's a pain!" he protested. He danced 
faster. He laughed louder. 

Before Frank fell asleep that night 
he planned the challenging, anni- 
hilating things with which he would 
answer Nancy's criticism. However, 
when he faced her soft eyes the next 
day his memory did a back flip.. Not 
that it mattered, for he was given no 
reason to defend himself. Not by word 
or look did she refer to the previous 
evening. But he couldn't get her to say 
she would come to the beach later on 
and he couldn't beguile her into in- 
viting him up on the porch to sit down. 

'T'HE next day, however, he walked a 
-*■ mile down the beach and found 
Nancy. There he sat beside her, pos- 
sessive and triumphant. 

Nancy knew what she wanted. And 
even that first summer, when she was 
only sixteen, she knew, unconsciously 
perhaps, that it was Frank Sinatra she 
wanted. She knew this just as surely 
as Frank, also unconsciously, knew it 
was her he wanted, always, above all. 

At the summer's end they returned to 
towns several miles apart. Actually, 
then they saw very little of each other. 
There were weeks when they didn't 
even talk on the telephone. They were 
occupied with their respective high 
schools. For Nancy there was also 
extra study and housework. For Frank 
there was also his broken-down jalopy 
and the parties at which he and his 
uke were the younger set's piece de 
resistance. 

At intervals Frank got tired of all 
this. It was then he called Nancy. She 
never seemed surprised to hear his 
voice, even that time he hadn't called 
for three months. It was as if she 
always knew he would call again 
eventually. 

Night school, following graduation 
from high -school, threw them together 
once more. There was only one night 
school in their part of New Jersey. "I 
have a chance to write sports for my 
paper," Frank explained, driving Nancy 
home. 

No explanation as to why Nancy was 
going to night school was needed. She 
was studying shorthand and typing, 
English and composition. It was, all of 
it, completely in pattern with her deep, 
driving wish for more knowledge and 
her deep driving urge to be the kind of 
person she would like to be. 

One Sunday afternoon Frank and 
Nancy went to a movie. Bing Crosby 
— in person — was the star attraction. 
The Crosby nonchalance and the easy 
warmth with which Bing sang hypno- 
tized Frank. He left the theater like a 
man in a dream. 

Nancy nudged him. "Is anything 
wrong?" she asked. 



"I've just found out what I'm going 
to be," he answered, still dazed, "I'm 
going to be a singer like Crosby!" 

She didn't tell him he was mad. She 
just said, "If that's what you want to 
be that's what you should be, of 
course . . ." 

He began by singing with a small 
local band. He figured this was the 
best way to get experience behind him. 
Then he sang "Night and Day" on the 
air on Major Bowes' Amateur Hour. 
And because of the way he sang it to 
Nancy, who was listening, he was 
chosen to go on tour with the Bowes 
troupe. 

Before going away with the troupe 
Frank held Nancy against his heart. 
"You're going to have so much money 
one day you won't know what to do 
with it," he promised. "Just wait!" 

They stood then staring at each 
other, seeing nothing beyond each 
other's eyes. 

"Wait for me, Nancy," he implored 
her. "No matter how far I go or how 
long I'm away I'll come back . ." 

"I know," she said. 

Every day he wrote to her. All the 
emotion and energy and drive he pre- 
viously had spent being wild and hav- 
ing fun now was directed towards her. 
One day, when he had been away al- 
most a year, he was so utterly home- 
sick for her that he quit the troupe. 

In the railroad station the sight of a 
telephone booth reminded him of what 
he, incredibly enough, hadn't realized 
before — that he could call Nancy, hear 
her voice . . . He only hoped he would 
be able to hear her, over the pounding 
of his heart . . . 

"Nancy," he called into the 'phone, 
"I'm so lonely for you . . ." 

Her voice came a quiet caress. "Keep 



your chin up and you'll be home, before 
you realize it . . ." 

"Before you realize it, you mean," he 
shouted. "I'm on my way!" 

She started to cry. She knew at 
last how completely he loved her. 

IN 1937 things were black. Frank 
haunted CBS and NBC. "But you've 
got to hear me sing," he told a casting 
director. Eager to be rid of the boy 
whose persistence had made his life 
miserable for weeks the director said, 
"I've warned you — many times — to stay 
out of here. The next time you barge 
in unannounced I'll have you put out!" 

Frank laughed in his face. "I'll tell 
you something . . ." he said. "Before 
you know it you'll be out of here and 
I'll be in . . ." 

There were occasional dates to sing 
with small bands and clubs. But often 
it was Nancy, who had a good steady 
job, who kept Frank in pocket money. 

Frank wrote the small radio stations 
offering to sing on their sustaining pro- 
grams free. In this way he hoped to 
make an impression. In this way the 
public would hear his voice and his 
name over and over. Soon enough so 
maay stations wanted him that he had 
difficulty getting from one program to 
another. 

Nancy was pleased. "Don't worry 
about the money," she said, "That will 
come, in time. We're young. We can 
afford to wait." 

Frank's eyes adored her. "I have a 
hunch I'll be landing a job soon. Then 
we can be married," he said. "It will 
be so wonderful, Nancy, never to have 
to tell you goodnight and leave you 
. . . never to be lonely the way I am 
unless you're around . . ." 

That same month the Rustic Cabin, 



a local night club, engaged Frank to 
sing at twenty-five dollars a week . . . 

Italians love a fete. Immediately 
Frank and Nancy set their wedding 
date, and the families on Nancy's block 
began preparing for the celebration. 
The men made wine. The women baked 
cakes. The children cut streamers and 
flower decorations. For several years 
now the neighbors had watched Nancy 
and Frank walk by holding hands, to 
remember days past when they had 
walked with love too. 

The first months Nancy and Frank 
were married they saw very little of 
each other. He worked most of the 
night and she worked most of the day. 
But the few hours they had together 
were sweet . . . 

"Good luck," the sentimentalists say, 
"comes with a new baby . . ." 

Harry James, hearing Frank sing, 
offered him the soloist spot with his 
band. Nancy gave up her job to go on 
the road with him. This was the be- 
ginning of the good fortune that 
crowded the next three years. Before 
that year was out Nancy Sandra was 
born, dark and lovely . . . Frank was 
signed by Tommy Dorsey . . . He sang 
at the big Paramount Theater in New 
York for a young fortune and broke 
records . . . On the air he was starred 
on the Hit Parade . . . He was booked 
at the swanky Riobamba . . . Now 
Frank sings on the Saturday Night 
Hit Parade at 9:00 P.M., EWT, over 
CBS, and he also has his own program 
on Friday nights at 11:15 over CBS. 
And he's in pictures, too. 

Maybe Frank is right — Maybe mir- 
aculous good fortune is only what 
should be expected . . . especially when, 
like Frank, you meet and marry a girl 
who loves you enough. 



: rH t&ST TUNS AT THIRST r/* f 



KM 



\ 



IrNBCTuesdoys- 




Two of radio's top tune- 
smiths tune in on America's 
top drink — Pepsi-Cola. It's 
the big drink with the better 
flavor . . . once you taste it 
you'll sing out, "Pepsi-Cola 
Hits the Spot". 



Pepsi-Cola Company, Long Island City, New York. Bottled locally by Franchised Bottlers from coast to coast. 



R 
M 

69 




Fay McKenz'e 
Clamorous Star 
Republic Studios 



55 



T>< 



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Shy Girl 

Continued from page 25 



was on my leave of absence. I was good 
at excuses, but my excuses had always 
before been designed to keep me from 
seeing people, not to help me meet 
them. 

The next day was hot and humid, 
with a threat of rain. I set out an hour 
earlier than I'd intended, as if — illogi- 
cally — by getting to the park before it 
rained, I could keep the rain away. 
There was no familiar figure in khaki 
in sight, and I sat down on a bench — 
the one on which he'd sat feeding the 
squirrels — to wait. The sun grew hot- 
ter; what little breeze there was died 
completely, and I began to wonder if 
the soldier had been kept away by the 
thought of rain. It was getting late, 
and I realized that the man I waited 
for wouldn't come. 

I KNEW that I ought to go back to my 

* aunt's, that there was no reason for 
my staying in the park, but I didn't 
have energy enough to leave. The 
blue-eyed soldier had put more interest 
than I knew into the past two days, and 
when there was no longer any use in 
thinking of him, I had no great interest 
in anything. I turned sideways on the 
bench, crooked my arm over the back 
of it, rested my chin on my arm, and 
stared blankly at a line of trees. 

So sitting, I heard footsteps on the 
walk. I paid no attention until a voice 
said hesitantly, "You oughtn't be sitting 
in the direct sun." 

It was a voice I'd heard before, the 
voice I'd awaited, and yet I felt trap- 
ped. After a second I turned and, 
slowly, looked up at him. There were 
fine beads of perspiration on his fore- 
head, and his shirt clung damply to his 
chest. He looked as if he'd been run- 
ning or walking very fast. My imagi- 
nation said that he'd been hurrying to 
meet me. I said, "I don't mind it." And 
then, "You look warm." 

"I am." He took out a handkerchief, 
wiped his face, and sat down gingerly. 

There was a thick silence while I, 
mortified and desperate, struggled to 
find something to say. 

A maternal voice called, "Maryeeee 
— " and the little girl in the yellow 
dress flashed past us. 

"I see the children have been at it 
again," the soldier said. 

"Yes." I waited for his grin, the en- 
gaging smile, at the memory of the 
other day. But he stared straight 
ahead, and there was another dreadful 
silence. 

I shifted, and he said suddenly, "My 
name is Jeff Kendall." 

"I'm Jane Matthews." 






•4P 



"Do you live around here?" 

"I'm visiting my cousin. My home 
is in Wilmont." I searched helplessly 
for all of the friendly, and fascinating, 
things I'd planned to say to him. We 
were saved by a familar sound, the 
jingle of an ice cream vendor's bell. 

"Would you like some ice cream?" 

"I'd love it." I'd have said I'd love a 
white elephant, had he offered it to me. 

I rose, and together we approached 
the vendor. He beamed at us. "Ice 
cream cones, sandwiches, Jolly Pops . . . 
Jolly Pop, lady?" 

"A Jolly Pop," I assented weakly, 
and regretted it a moment later. Jolly 
Pops, thin bars of ice cream coated with 
waxy chocolate, weren't designed to 
last outside a refrigerator. A trickle 
of melted cream ran down my chin, 
and while I tried to catch it with my 
free hand, another overflowed the paper 
and traced a ziz-zag course to my el- 
bow. 

Jeff flushed and dabbed with his 
handkerchief. "Darned stuff doesn't 
last long in this heat," he apologized. 

There are limits to one's self-import- 
ance. 1, who had been too self-con- 
scious to dance with as good a partner 
as Bob Travis, was suddenly able to 
laugh at the picture I made running 
small rivers of ice cream. "It's the 
sun," I laughed. "It's as hot as Texas." 

"Texas! What do you know about 
Texas?" 

"I lived there for a year, in San An- 
tonio." 

"San Antonio — that's my home town!" 

AND then I saw his smile, the grin 
^* that made his eyes into half-moons 
and changed him from an awkward and 
uncomfortable-looking boy into a 
young man thoroughly delighted with 
life and — at least at the moment — with 
me. 

I was late getting back to the house 
that afternoon. Aunt Ethel looked up 
from the dinner table, her anxiety fad- 
ing as she saw me. "Janie! What on 
earth — " 

"I met a man from Texas," I ex- 
plairerl.. "From San Antonio, where 
we used to live — " 

My aunt and my cousin exchanged 
glances which said, "Well! Janie finally 
found a man she could talk to!" 

I didn't care. I was too happy. I had 
found more than a man to talk to; I had 
found the one person in all the world 
who was like me. We had not talked 
long about San Antonio that afternoon. 
We had talked about ourselves, trying 
to cover my nineteen years and Jeff's 
twenty-four in an afternoon. 



ay fueww 



Young 
Youth, 
aughte 



ELAINE VITO, 18-year-old harpist with Raymond Paige's 
Americans' Orchestra on the program known as Salute to 
heard over NBC Tuesdays at 7:30 P.M., EWT. Elaine is the dc . 
of Edward Vito, harpist with the NBC Symphony. She was taught by 
her father and also studied under Tibor Serly. Elaine is occasionally 
loaned out by Paige to the NBC Symphony Orchestra. It was on such 
an occasion that Toscanini pinched her cheek and affectionately 
called her "my little jewel." Actually Elaine has two careers, although 
music is her first love. She is a face and figure model for Walter 
Thornton in between professional music activities. She hopes to get 
married by the time she is twenty-one. At the age of 14, she was chosen 
by Walter Damrosch as soloist with his symphony orchestra. 




■T£. 






Z ^^ ? - 



I had been right about him — he had 
been lonely, not only because he was a 
stranger in a strange city, but with the 
terrible loneliness that I knew, the self- 
imposed loneliness which shuts you 
away from the people you see every 
day, from your family, from those who 
wotild be your friends. His father had 
died when Jeff was small, and Jeff had 
worked most of his life to support him- 
self and his mother, and later when his 
mother died he put himself through en- 
gineering school. He'd had no time for 
play, no time to learn the little ameni- 
ties which make a man feel at ease with 
women and with other men. 

I had found a place in the world, 
finally. I meant something to someone. 
To Jeff I was everything I'd never been 
before — I was attractive; I was the girl 
he looked forward to seeing: I was 
someone to dream about as I dreamed 
about him. 

His eyes gave him away, and the 
little half-restrained movements he'd 
made toward me — the way he'd taken 
my arm to link it in his and then had 
let go, quickly, self-consciously, as if 
he'd just remembered we'd just met. 

His eagerness gave him away — the 
way his words tumbled over each other 
in his haste to tell me all about him- 
self, and to make plans for seeing me 
again. "Janie, look — we're not busy at 
camp right now. Most of us are here 
awaiting orders. I've nearly every 
other afternoon and every other eve- 
ning free, and it doesn't take twenty 
minutes to get into Hampton from 
camp. Do you think you can stand see- 
ing me that often? I'd like to take you 
to a show tomorrow night — " 

HE called for me at the house the next 
evening, and I saw the approval 
in Aunt Ethel's eyes, the approval in 
Rosalie's, as I introduced him to them. 
"Rosalie liked you," I told him as we 
left the house. "She'll be asking us out 
with her friends. Her crowd has a lot 
of fun — " 

As I spoke, I realized that it would 
be fun — the picnics, the swimming par- 
ties, the dances Rosalie was forever 
arranging — with Jeff. With Jeff along, 
I'd have a place in the group; I wouldn't 
be the odd girl, the wallflower every- 
one had to exert himself to be nice to. 

Jeff caught my hand, tucked it firmly 
in the crook of his arm. "I'm happy to 
be alone with you, Janie." 

We walked in happiness that summer 
evening, along the quiet neighborhood 
streets, down toward the town. When 
we reached the loop, the lights were 
garishly bright; the crowds outside the 
theaters jostled noisily against us. We 
decided against a movie and stopped 
instead at a small cafe where, except 
for a yawning waiter, we were alone. 
We ordered food and forgot to eat it. 
We talked interminably. And we sat 
silent, our hands touching across the 
table. 

And there was no need for words 
later when Jeff brought me home, when 
we stood for a long moment at the gate, 
looking at each other and beyond to all 
of the things life had come to mean. 

"Janie — " Our lips met in a kiss that 
was more than a kiss, that was a pledge 
of the deep bond between us, an 
affirmation of our love. "Janie." he 
whispered as he released me, "is it too 
soon? Should I have waited, and sent 
you candy and flowers? Should I have 
gone through all of the motions people 
make before they admit what's hap- 
pened to them? You know that I love 
you, Janie." 

They were the words every woman 
waits for, the words that are her birth- 




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I 

M 

74 




Continued from page 72 
would be because he didn't want to, 
because he cared so little about me 
that he could stand me up, that he 
could break his word to me. 

"Why worry about this Jeff?" urged 
Bob Travis, "Let's dance." 

"It's my dance," interrupted Roy 
Price, coming up and taking my other 
arm. "Janie, you know, you promised — " 

"There he is now," said Rosalie sud- 
denly, and I looked away from Roy 
to see Jeff standing at the other end 
of the porch near the steps. 

He gave me a long, curious look, a 
look that took in Bob and Roy, then he 
nodded stiffly, and went on into the 
house. I broke away from the boys 
and hurried after him. He wasn't in 
the living room, nor — one panicky 
glance told me — in the dining room. 
But one of the French windows in the 
dining room was open. Following my 
instinct, I stepped through. 

Jeff was standing in the shadows of 
the side yard, leaning against a tree, 
lighting a cigarette. The face he turned 
to me was strained and distant. "Poor 
little Janie," he said, "who'd be all 
alone in a crowd if I weren't around!" 

I felt my own face whiten at his tone. 
"Jeff, what do you mean? And you 
were late — " 

"I'll say I was! I shouldn't have 
come at all. I've never felt like such 
a fool in all my life!" 

"Jeff, what's the matter? What have 
I done?" 

HE swung around, his eyes blazing. 
"Done! You've made a fool out of 
me for the past two weeks, that's all! I 
was silly enough to believe everything 
you told me. You were shy. You were 
lonely. You couldn't get along with 
people. Until I showed up, you'd never 
found anyone in the whole world to 
talk to!" 

"Listen to me, Jeff — " My fingers dug 
into his arm, and my voice, to keep 
from shaking, was a flat monotone. "I 
haven't lied to you, not about myself, 
nor anything. You're upset because 
you walked into a lot of strangers and 
found no one to greet you — " 

He interrupted furiously, "Don't try 
to tell me about myself — " 

"I will tell you about yourself, be- 
cause I am enough like you to know. I 
should have watched for you tonight, 
but I was busy. I'm sorry — " 

He threw away his cigarette. "That 
isn't the point. It's your being dif- 
ferent — " 

"Maybe I am different. I hope I am." 
I caught the flash of surprise in his 
eyes, and I knew that he wouldn't 
break away, that he'd hear me through. 
"I was having a good time tonight, 
Jeff — a good time in a crowd for the 
first time in my whole life. And I've 
been having a a good time ever since I 
met you — because I've had someone 
besides myself to think about. I was 
sure you'd come tonight, sure you'd 
enjoy yourself after you got here, so 
I was relaxed; I didn't get all tied up 
in knots worrying that I might do or 
say the wrong thing. I found that the 
people were gay and interesting, and 
interested in us — in you and me. And 
if you'd stopped to meet them, if you'd 
been thinking less of yourself you'd 
have found out the same thing." 

"Janie, what's the use in talking 
about it — " 

But his objection was weak, and I 
hurried to keep my advantage. My 
thoughts unfolded as I spoke, and 
phrases I'd heard often before became 
truths as I uttered them. "That's all 



there is to getting along with people, 
Jeff — forgetting yourself, being natural, 
assuming that what you have to say is 
just as important as what anyone else 
can say. We have to live with people, 
always, and when we keep silent, and 
shut them away from us, and leave 
them to guess what we mean and what 
will please us, we ask too much of 
them. It's childish of us. It was child- 
ish of you to walk out tonight, and 
selfish. You knew how much I wanted 
you here — " 

I talked fast, fluently. I knew the 
words by heart. I'd heard them all of 
my life, from my mother. 

He was silent after I'd finished. "I'm 
sorry, honey," he said finally. "Maybe 
you're right. I'll have to think it over. 
Anyway, I'm sorry I made things un- 
comfortable for you. What can I do to 
make up for it?" 

"Come back to the party." 

"If it will please you." 

"Believe what I say." 

He gave me an odd glance. "No one 
believes by being told to believe. 
Everyone has to find out for himself." 

U£ was right, of course. I'd had to find 
*■' out for myself. "There's another 
thing, Jeff — " I was afraid of what I 
was going to say, and yet I had to say it. 

"That bond between us, Jeff — I 
I thought it was partly the things we've 
enjoyed together, everything we've 
planned and mean to do. If it means 
only that we're going to cling to each 
other because we're afraid of every- 
one else, then it's just admitting a 
weakness. If that's all it is, I don't 
want it." 

His voice was strange. "Janie, do 
you know what you're saying?" 

"Yes, I do. And I mean it." 

His face was unreadable. I waited, 
hearing the music and the sounds of 
dancing grown suddenly loud, empha- 
sizing our own silence. I waited until 
I could stand it no longer, and then I 
turned and walked away, already re- 
gretting my words, afraid I had lost. 

I loved Jeff, and I wanted him, even 
if being with him meant that we could 
never see anyone else. And yet I 
wanted him the right way, too, wanted 
to be able to live with him as other 
people lived. 

I heard his footsteps behind me on 
the grass. He caught up with me, 
took my arm, and I looked up to see his 
old smile. 

"It's a big order, Janie. I'll try to 
change. If I begin right now, will you 
trust me to do it my own way?" 

I nodded mutely, shaken with relief, 
but a little apprehensive. He led me 
across the lawn, up on the porch, over 
to the musicans. He tapped the violin- 
ist on the shoulder. "I'm sorry to 
interrupt you, mister — " 

The music and the dancers stopped 
abruptly, and Jeff took advantage of 
the surprised silence. "Mrs. Webb — 
Rosalie — everybody — I'd like to tell 
you all something you might want to 
hear." His arm was around me, holding 
me close against him, so close that I 
could hear the rapid beat of his heart. 
But his voice was steady. "This looks 
like a good party, like a celebration. 
I'd like you all to know that I'm one 
person who has a real reason for 
celebrating. Janie and I are going to 
be married before the month is out." 

In the midst of all the rest — the con- 
gratulations and the good wishes and 
an inspired fanfare from the orchestra 
—I held tightly to Jeff's hand, although 
I didn't need the reassurance of his 
touch. We had found ourselves, and 
each other. 



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I Belong to You 

Continued from page 29 

coming, will it?" he asked anxiously, 
and there was such disappointment 
in his face that I couldn't say anything 
but: 

"No — I don't see why it should. You 
said there was a cabin where I could 
live?" 

"Yes ma'am — across the ravine from 
my place. It's real nice, up there in 
the mountains," he said with a kind 
of pathetic eagerness. "Clean and 
quiet, and lots of fresh air and — " He 
stopped, and for a minute we looked 
at each other in silence. Then — "My 
name's Jud Williams," he said. 

"Mine's Florence Rollburn." Quickly, 
I said, "When would you want me to 
start?" 

"We could go today," he said eagerly. 
"Start right after noon and we'd be 
there by supper-time — that is, if you 
don't mind such short notice." 

"I don't mind," I said. "I'll be ready 
to leave as soon as I've packed a few 
things." 

"That's swell! This is sure my lucky 
day, Miss Rollburn." 

"And mine too," I said — and was 
surprised to realize that I meant it. 

WE went out of the office together, 
leaving the woman staring after us, 
and parted on the sidewalk. He wanted 
me to tell him where I lived, so he 
could pick me up there in his car, but 
I said I'd meet him downtown. I didn't 
want him to see, and wonder at, that 
huge place on Sacramento Street. 

On the way home I reflected that 
if, as I'd said the night before, I didn't 
really know what kind of a person I 
was, I was learning fast. An impulsive 
person, for one thing. But I was glad 
I asked him for the job. He was the 
only bit of friendliness I had seen all 
morning, and he was, really, as lost in 
this world of cement and steel and 
noise as I was myself. I had talked to 
him only a few minutes, but I under- 
stood him. 

It didn't seem at all strange to me, 
somehow, that I should be willing to 
go with him to a lonely mine in pref- 
erence to facing another employment 
agency woman. 

I telephoned Mr. Elverson to tell 
him I'd found a job that would take 
me out of town, and to ask him if he 
would take care of everything con- 
nected with clearing up Mother's debts. 
"I'll write to you," I promised, "and 
give you my address so if there are 
any papers to sign you can send them." 

I didn't call Chad. I didn't dare, 
because I knew he'd tell me I was 
mad to take a job with a man I'd 
never seen before. I wrote, instead: 

"Dear Chad — I have a job. I'm leav- 
ing town this afternoon to begin it. 
I know you won't approve, but please 
try to understand. If I am ever going 
to grow up, I must do things like find- 
ing jobs and working at them entirely 
on my own. I don't know how it will 
work out — I'll write you when I do. 
Meanwhile, thank you for everything." 

I hesitated before sealing it into the 
envelope. Sending it was like putting 
aside my last hope of retreat. Quickly 
I sealed the envelope, filled two suit- 
cases with clothes and toilet articles — 
and Mother's picture — and called a taxi 
to take me to the downtown corner 
where I had promised to meet Jud 
Williams. 

He was there, waiting anxiously, 
and didn't even try to hide his relief 



when he saw me. His car, old and 
caked with dust, was parked on a 
side-street, and soon we were driving 
up Market Street, up the Twin Peaks 
road and south along the coast. We 
didn't talk much — the noise of the 
motor would have made talking diffi- 
cult anyway — but he did tell me that 
Petey was seven years old and that 
the little boy's mother had died when 
he was born; that he'd had the mine 
for three years and it was just begin- 
ning to pay now. 

It was late afternoon when we got 
to the mine. It didn't seem possible 
that only ninety miles from San Fran- 
cisco there could be a place so lonely. 

We'd turned off into a narrow road, 
washed out in spots to the bare rocks, 
twisting its way around and up the 
mountain, past chapparral and man- 
zanita. Suddenly it turned sharply 
and dipped into a cleft where water 
gurgled and trees grew. For a while 
it followed the line of the cleft, climb- 
ing all the way, and then, rounding 
another curve, it came to an end in 
a little clearing perched midway up 
the flank of the miniature canyon. 

''This is it," Jud said with bashful 
pride. "This is the mine." 

AT first I saw nothing but trees and 
• low-growing scrub, and a swaying 
suspension bridge across the narrow 
canyon. The plank cabin at the far 
end of the clearing was so much a 
part of the scene, so natural there, 
that I discovered it, finally, with a 
feeling of surprise. 

"The diggings're in back of the 
shack," Jud explained. "And your house 
is over there — " he pointed — "across the 
bridge." 

I took a deep breath of the cool, 
scented air, filling my lungs with it 
as my ears were filled with the soft 
whispering of the pines and the distant 
chatter of the water at the bottom 
of the ravine. "It's lovely," I said. 

"It's not so very fancy," Jud said, 
getting out of the car. "But I like it." 
Shyly he added, "And I hope you will." 

"I will — I know I will." 

"Guess you'd like to see your own 
house," he said, picking up my suit- 
cases. "Come on across the bridge 
and I'll show you." 

He went ahead of me, stepping 
lightly and surely. But just as I put 
my foot on the weathered boards a 
gust of wind came down the ravine, 
setting the flimsy affair of thin steel 
cable and creaking wood to rocking. I 
had a glimpse of water foaming white 
over rocks below, and I drew back. 

"Scared?" Jud said with a chuckle. 
"Don't worry. Old bridge looks as if 
any minute it might blow away, but 
it's safe as a church." He put down 
one of the suitcases and gave me his 
hand, and we went across. It was like 
walking on air. 

Jud went back for the other suitcase, 
and then led the way a few dozen steps 
farther to my new home. It was a 
cabin — one room, its walls lined with 
tar-paper and a few pictures cut from 
newspapers; an iron stove and a few 
shelves; a table and two straight- 
backed chairs; a low cot. That was all. 

Jud set my bags down on the rough 
flooring and straightened up. "Got 
to run down to Farr's now," he said, 
"to pick up Petey. I'll buy somethin' 
to eat, too, and be back in half, three- 
quarters of an hour. You won't mind 
bein' left alone?" 

"Oh, no," I said. "I'll unpack and — 
if you've got some spare bedding . . .?" 

"Gee, sure," he agreed. "There's 
plenty up at my place." About to 



I want K> Jf» 




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leave, he cast a troubled look about 
him. "I didn't know this shack was 
so — well, so measly-lookin'. Always 
looked all right when Old Mike was 
in it, but seems like havin' a woman 
inside it shows up all its bad points." 

I laughed. "In a day or so I'll get 
some curtains and maybe a new chair 
and a spread for the bed. It'll look 
different then." 

"Ought to have wall-paper or some- 
thin'," he worried. 

"Later, maybe," I said. "If I'm suc- 
cessful at my job. Now go on and 
get Petey, and when you come back 
I'll cook supper for us all." 

He left, and for a while I was busy 
hanging up my clothes on some nails 
I found driven into the studding of 
the wall. But that didn't take long, 
and I decided to go over and inspect 
Jud's cabin and the mine. Once outside 
the door, I stopped, suddenly remem- 
bering the bridge, afraid. 

It was so fragile and unsteady. If I 
became giddy I could easily lose my 
balance and fall onto those wicked- 
looking rocks. Or one of the cables 
might snap . . . 

I wanted to wait until Jud returned. 
But I set my teeth and lifted my chin. 
I couldn't call him every time I wanted 
to cross this bridge! And if I was 
going to stop being afraid, there 
couldn't be a better time than now. 

I didn't look down as I went across, 
and I kept both hands on the low 
guard rails — but I went across. 

BY the time Jud was back with Petey, 
I had a fire going in the stove 
and a light in the kerosene lamp — the 
latter at the cost of a handful of 
matches and a badly smoked chimney. 

Petey was a thin, bright-eyed little 
boy, with curiosity and mischief writ- 
ten all over him. I felt strange and 
ill-at-ease with him at first, because 
he was actually the first child I'd talked 
to since I was very little older than 
Petey himself, but he was so frankly 
delighted at my presence that soon we 
were great friends. 

He created one moment of embar- 
rassment, though. Halfway through 
supper he stopped eating, fixed me 
with a hard look, and demanded: 

"Are you Pop's wife?" 

I saw Jud color, and felt myself 
doing the same. Jud said sharply, "Of 
course not, Petey! I told you her name 
was Miss Rollburn." 

Petey said, remembering, "Oh, yeah, 
that's right. And besides, you're goin' 
to live over at Old Mike's, aren't you? 
If you were Pop's wife I guess you'd 
live here, wouldn't you?" 

"Yes, Petey, I guess I would," I 
said faintly. 

We ate in silence until Petey sud- 
denly remarked, with the air of one 
who is having the last word: 

"Well, I wish you was. Pop's wife, 
I mean" 

"Eat your supper," his father said 
sternly. 

Jud's cabin was very much like 
mine, except that it was a little larger, 
equipped with a leanto for storage 
space, and had two cots in it instead 
of one. It was, I had noticed at once, 
scrupulously clean and tidy although, 
manlike, he had made only a few 
bungling efforts to make it attractive 
too. But in the mellow glow of the 
lamp, and with the wood in the stove 
chirping companionably, it seemed 
very cozy. We sat for perhaps an hour 
at the table, Jud telling me how mer- 
cury was mined, and then did the 
dishes together in water that had been 
carried up from the creek in a bucket 



and heated on the stove. Petey, in- 
sisting that he wasn't tired, promptly 
went to sleep at the table. 

When everything had been washed 
and put away, Jud tucked a load of 
blankets under his arm and produced 
a flashlight. "I'll go across with you," 
he offered. 

I protested, but not very strongly, 
that it wasn't necessary — and when we 
opened the door and stepped outside 
I was more glad of his company than 
I wanted to let him know. For at night 
you saw just how lonely this little 
pocket in the hills really was. It was 
pitch black. 

The thought crossed my mind, "I 
could scream at the top of my lungs — 
and there would be no one to hear." 

It was an unhealthy thought, and 
a foolish one. I put it aside. Following 
the little bobbing guide of his flash- 
light, I went down the trail, across the 
bridge — here, at least, the darkness 
was a help — and along the farther trail 
to my cabin. Jud went in with me and 
lit the lamp. "Now, when you want 
to put it out, just turn it down as low 
as you can and blow down the chim- 
ney," he instructed me. 

He stopped at the door, looking 
worried. "Sure you'll be all right — 
not scared or anything?" 

"Quite sure, Jud." 

"Because I could send Petey over. 
He could sleep on the floor." 

"No, thanks," I said. "I'll be all 
right — really." 

"Well— Good night." 

"Good night, Jud," I said. 

Then he had closed the door and 
was gone, and I heard the lonely sound 
of his retreating footsteps. 

Yet the strange thing was that I 
really didn't feel afraid. I undressed 
and made my bed and got into it — 
first extinguishing the lamp according 
to Jud's instructions — and almost be- 
fore I had time to think of the crowded 
day, I was asleep. 

THE days at the mine fell into a pat- 
tern — a bright-colored pattern of 
sunlight and shade. Up at six — break- 
fast with Jud in his cabin — then to 
work at the mine-head, with intervals 
around mid-morning to prepare lunch 
— back to work from one until six, 
again taking time off to fix dinner — bed 
at nine or soon after. 

Each day, you see, was like the one 
before or the one after, except on 
week-ends, when we drove to Pacific 
Ridge to get Petey and do the week's 
shopping. All the days were alike, but 
all were different, too. There was the 
day the red squirrel took a Deanut from 
my hand . . . and the day Jud filled 
the flask of mercury since my arrival 
. . . and the day it rained . . . and the 
day it was so unusually hot. 

One week — two — three. There were 
four flasks of mercury now, twice as 
many, Jud said, as he'd ever got out 
in the same space of time before. One 
more, and he'd have a shipment. He 
wanted to take them to San Francisco 
himself, instead of sending them by 
express, and he urged me to go along. 

"We'll have plenty of money," he 
said, "and we can really have ourselves 
a time. We'll eat dinner in a swell 
place, and take in some shows, and 
buy some clothes, and— You'd like 
that, wouldn't you?" 

His gray eyes had been shining, but 
now doubt clouded them. I said, "Yes, 
but I don't think you ought to spend 
all that money. You've got to save, 
you know, for Petey when he gets old 
enough to go to college." The truth, 
which I didn't want to tell him, was 



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that 1 never wanted to see the city 
again. At the mention of it, the old 
fear returned in all its full, stifling 
force. It had even been difficult — 
although I had finally done it — to 
write Mr. Elverson and tell him where 
I was. 

"You don't like the city much, do 
you?" Jud asked keenly. 

"Not — so very much." 

"You like it here?" 

I raised my head. It was dusk, and 
we were sitting together on the stoop 
of Jud's cabin. The ravine was filled 
with a soft, violet haze, the sky above 
it a flawless V of pure washed gold. 
There seemed to be no wind, but the 
tops of the pines moved gently and 
there was a light, cool breath on my 
cheek. The bridge was like a double 
strand of black silk thread flung across 
the creek. 

"I love it, Jud," I said simply. 

"It's done you good, too," he said 
with satisfaction. "When you come 
you was pretty peaked, but now you're 
brown and happy-lookin'." He glanced 
up at me from where he lay sprawled 
on one elbow, his long legs stretched 
out to the dust and pine needles of 
the path. Only for a second, and then 
he looked away again. 

"I was thinkin' — " he said, "there's 
one other thing I'd sort of like to buy 
for you in the city. I didn't mention 
it before — and maybe I oughtn't to 
mention it now. But — well — don't you 
think we could find some kind o' use 
for a weddin' license?" 

I didn't answer right away. His 
words seemed to flow through me, into 
my mind, my heart, my flesh. And 
with them they brought a sense of 
deep, sweet peace. I bent down to 
his questioning lips. 

"Yes, Jud," I said. "I think probably 
we could." 

For a second he didn't seem to under- 
stand or believe. Then he yelped in 
pure relief. "Gosh! I was scared to 
ask you — I figured you'd just laugh at 
me, or get mad and walk out and I'd 
never see you again. But I couldn't 
keep it bottled up inside me any longer 
or I'd bust . . ." 

I said, laughing, "Aren't you going 
to kiss me, Jud?" 

"Well — gee — " 

IT was the first kiss of my life, and 
* perhaps it was awkward and fum- 
bling. But it could not have been 
sweeter to me. 

Later, Jud said, "Now you'll sure 
come to town with me, won't you?" 

"Of course." Because with Jud at 
my side I would find nothing there to 
fear- — not even the time I must spend 
with Chad. Chad ... it was strange 
to think of him again. Ever since I 
left San Francisco, he had been only 
a shadow in the back of my thoughts, 



like someone I'd known in another 
existence. 

He would be hurt, I knew — probably 
was hurt already by my abrupt de- 
parture and long failure to write him. 
But I could not feel ashamed. There 
had been nothing to write him, nothing 
he could understand. How could I 
have made him see, in a letter, the 
deep satisfaction I had found here, 
working with my hands, helping Jud? 

We planned on driving to San Fran- 
cisco the next Wednesday. We would 
get married on Saturday morning and 
spend the week-end in the city, re- 
turning to the mine on Monday. Jud 
was full of plans for adding another 
room to the cabin, buying new furni- 
ture, new dishes, a radio . . . 

"But the money!" I protested. "We 
can't afford all that, Jud!" 

"Sure we can! We can afford any- 
thing." He laughed like a boy. "When 
you see how hard I'm going to work!" 

THEN, late on Tuesday afternoon, we 
heard the growl of a high-powered 
car coming up the road toward the 
mine. 

Its ill-tempered sound came ahead 
of it, and we were both at the door 
of the cabin when it swung around 
the bend and into the clearing. As it 
stopped the apprehension I had felt 
as soon as I heard it hardened into 
certainty. Here and now — not tomor- 
row or next day, not in the privacy of 
Chad's office — was the moment I must 
put my new-found courage to the test. 

"What the — " Jud muttered as Chad 
got out of the car and came toward 
us, frowning. 

"I know him, Jud — he's a friend of 
mine."' And I stepped through the 
doorway. "Hello, Chad," I said. 

He stopped, looking from me to Jud 
in angry incredulity. When he spoke 
his voice was curt, in spite of his efforts 
to keep it under control. 

"Florence, what insanity is this?" 

"It's not insanity, Chad," I told him. 
"I wrote you I had a job. I've been 
working here for Mr. Williams, help- 
ing him with his mine." I half-turned, 
indicating Jud, but Chad gave him 
only a glance. 

"I've been trying to find you for three 
weeks," he said petulantly. "Elverson 
didn't know where you were either, 
until a few days ago. I managed to 
get away for a day, to come up here — 
and now I find you like — like this!" 
His eyes took in the primitive cabin, 
Jud standing beside me in his stained 
work clothes, my own checked shirt 
and dark breeches. 

"Maybe it isn't very grand, Chad," 
I said,, "but I've been happier here 
than I've ever been before." 

"No doubt!" 

I didn't understand at first. Then 
shame came burning into my cheeks. 



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Jud stepped forward. 

"Just what d'you mean by that?" 
he asked dangerously. 

Chad ignored him. "I'm sorry, Flor- 
ence. I shouldn't have said that." 

"Darn right you shouldn't," Jud 
growled. "Florence, who is this man?" 

Their voices, with fury held just in 
check, seemed to be battering me from 
both sides. I had to stop them, make 
everything clear. . 

"You shouldn't have come up, Chad," 
I said. "I was going to see you in the 
city tomorrow — to tell you I'm going 
to marry Jud." 

Chad looked utterly amazed. "Marry 
him! Have you gone crazy?" 

| PUT both hands behind me, flat 
-* against the wood of the cabin, as if 
by doing so I could keep a firmer grip 
upon reality. "Is — is it so crazy," 1 
asked faintly, "to marry the man you 
love?" 

"Love!" Chad said scornfully. "You 
told me yourself, only three weeks 
ago, you didn't know what love was. 
Do you think you've learned so fast?" 

"Yes — I've learned a great deal in 
three weeks." 

Chad stepped closer to where Jud 
and I stood together as if united against 
him. "But Florence, think!" he said 
in a different tone, almost pleadingly. 
"Don't let yourself be carried away 
by this — this infatuation! How can 
you be happy up here in the wilderness 
— never seeing anyone, working, slav- 
ing? You needn't hide your hands — I 
saw how rough they are." 

I snatched them out from behind me. 
"I didn't mean to hide them," I said. 
"I'm proud that they're rough." 

"Yes, perhaps you are — now! But 
don't you see how impossible it is for 



you to think of staying here? You 
gave up your life to your mother 
while she was alive, and now you want 
to give it up again! Well, I won't 
let you." 

Jud said, "I don't just see how you're 
goin' to stop her, mister." 

"By saying again what I said once 
before," Chad told him evenly. "I 
asked you to marry me, Florence. I'm 
asking you again, right now. I can 
give you a home, a real life. What 
can he give you — except work and 
a hovel to live in?" 

"They're all I want, Chad." 

"You don't know what you're say- 
ing, Florence," he insisted. "Every 
woman wants more from life than this 
— this poverty. By marrying this man 
you'd simply be turning yourself into 
a sla've. Don't do it! Come back with 
me — let me take care of you!" 

I saw Jud's hands clench — and 
slowly relax. And in his eyes there 
was defeat, the utter defeat of a proud 
man. 

He smiled wearily — a crooked, sad 
little smile that lifted one corner of 
his mouth for an instant and then was 
gone. "I could've answered just about 
any other argument, I guess," he said, 
"but not this one. It's true I can't give 
you much of anything — no fancy house, 
nothin' but a chance to do a lot of 
work I — I can't make up your mind 
for you, Florence. If you say you 
don't want to marry me, I'll under- 
stand, I guess." 

I didn't speak, just then. I looked 
out, past Chad, to the narrow little 
ravine that had bounded my world 
for three weeks. And this time I saw 
it stripped of all its romance. It was 
only a place now, a tiny part of the 
world. I'd been wrong in thinking that 



in it 1 was escaping. Chad had shown 
me that there could be struggle here, 
too. Mercury was valuable now, be- 
cause of the war, but what of after- 
ward, when there might be no such 
ready market? Then Jud and I would 
toil from morning until night, and 
have little to show for our labors ex- 
cept weariness and discouragement. 

All that could happen, so easily. And 
yet— 

It didn't matter at all. 

"Chad," I said, "you want to take 
care of me. You've said that so often. 
I think that with you, love is wanting 
to protect the person you love. And 
that's important, but it isn't every- 
thing . . For eleven years I took 
care of Mother because I loved her — 
but I wasn't living. Now you want 
to take care of me — and that wouldn't 
be living, either, not for me and not 
for you. There has to be a little of 
both, m any real love; some giving 
and some taking. That's why I'm going 
to marry Jud." 

r r , HERE was a long silence. Then 
■*■ Chad took a deep breath. "All right, 
Florence," he said, and for the first 
time I heard humility in his voice. 
"I hope you'll be very happy. I rather 
think you will." 

Without another word he went to 
his car and drove away. We listened 
until the sound of its motor dwindled 
away into silence. Quietly, Jud took 
me into his arms. 

The night breeze swept down the 
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Come Back, Beloved! 

Continued from page 42 

wrong. You see, I'd had plenty of time 
to think it over. Julie would have been 
furious with him I knew. But Julie 
had failed with Michael. If her way 
had been wrong, then perhaps the op- 
posite way would win him in the end. 

So I didn't ask where he had been. 
I only said, quietly, "Michael, what are 
you going to do now?" 

"About what?" he asked. 

"About . . . what happened at the 
plant," I answered. 

He looked steadily at me, and then 
dropped his eyes. "There's nothing to 
be done. I gave Bogart what he asked 
for. He's had it coming to him for a 
long time." His voice was low, sullen, 
like the voice of a little boy who knows 
he's done something wrong but won't 
admit it, even to himself. 

"Michael," I said, "isn't it time you 
started to face things? You can't go 
through life getting into trouble and 
then just . . . walking out." 

He shook his head, and looked down 
at the floor. "It's the way I am," he 
said. "It's the way it'll have to be. 
When I get excited I act. If it turns out 
to be something foolish . . ." He looked 
up. "What's one more foolish thing in 
my life?" 

Doubt went through me like a sharp 
pain. Afraid of the hurt that might lie 
in his answer, I still had to ask. 

¥ REPEATED, "One more . . . foolish 
*■ thing? Do you mean, Michael, that 
getting married to me was . . . foolish?" 

He didn't answer. I waited with my 
heart thumping. When I couldn't stay 
still any longer, I got up and walked to 
the window, to hide my eyes, and the 
pain in them from him. 

"I won't stand in your way," I said. 
"You can get a divorce, if you're still 
that much in love with Julie." 

There was a second's silence, and 
then he got swiftly to his feet. He 
strode across the room to me and took 
hold of my shoulders. "Ann honey," 
he said, "I didn't mean it. Don't ever 
leave me. I need you. Some day I'll 
get over this . . . this feeling I have, 
and I'll be a good husband to you then." 

He swung me around, pulled me back 
across the room to the couch, and flung 
himself down beside me. We were 
quiet for a long time then, each of us 
busy with our own deep thoughts. But 
at last he began to talk — talk about his 
life with Julie, and I felt, now, that I 
could listen. 

I began to see what life had been like 
for them. Julie, with her cultured 
background, and her circle of "arty" 
friends, had tried to "raise him to her 
level." And Michael, who had run 
away from home and school to become 
a printer's apprentice . . . well, he 
wanted to be Michael. 

Julie had kept her job at first. 
Michael hadn't liked it, but he couldn't 
ask her to give it up, for he knew what 
it meant to her. And for a while, when 
she had tried to make him a part of her 
family and circle of friends, there had 
been embarrassment and heartaches. 
For Michael was a printer, and proud 
of it, and he couldn't have changed his 
language and his manners if he'd tried. 

And there had been jealousy, too, 
because Julie had lots of friends, young 
women who thought it was smart to 
flirt, even with another woman's hus- 
band — and Michael's looks and charm 
were a combination hard to resist. 

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known of Michael's skill as a printer. 
And one day, unknown to Michael, she 
had talked to her parents about getting 
the money to set Michael up in busi- 
ness for himself. Their first bitter 
quarrel had come when Michael had 
flatly refused the offer. 

They had quarreled almost constantly 
after that. But when they weren't 
quarreling, they were passionately 
making love. There was no doubt 
about the physical attraction. They 
would have been a perfect couple, if 
there hadn't been the complications of 
money and ambition and social back- 
ground. 

Finally he had walked out of their 
smart, expensive apartment, and taken 
a little place of his own. Julie had 
stayed away for three whole days. Then 
she had given up her job and come to 
live with him. 

But with Julie, it was only a tem- 
porary compromise. She hadn't given 
up her ambitions. And they hadn't 
stopped quarreling. Twice, Michael had 
simply walked out on his job, as I had 
just seen him do, and the second time 
they had begun to feel the pinch of 
poverty. 

So it was Julie who had walked out 
on him then, and Julie hadn't come 
back. 

I SAT beside him on the couch, letting 
him talk. This was what he had 
needed, I thought, some one to talk to 
about Julie. And although his words 
hurt, I felt somehow that things were 
going to be better, now that the bitter- 
ness was coming out. 

How could I say anything more to 
him then about going back to the plant? 
Why, I didn't even think it was neces- 
sary. He needed sleep, he needed to 
get a bit farther away from that 
quarrel of last night with the bosses' 
son. He'd be reasonable — I was sure 
of that. 

I lay back on the pillows, settling 
him more comfortably in my arms, 
resting his head against my breast. "My 
darling," I said, softly. 

And that was the way we fell asleep. 

It was very sweet, sleeping there, 
cradling Michael in my arms, and very 
sweet to awaken like that. Nice, too, to 
remember, when I awakened, my last 
thoughts before going to sleep . . . Mi- 
chael would be reasonable. Everything 
would be all right. 

But everything wasn't — everything 
was just as wrong as before. I didn't 
say anything about the plant until it 
was nearly time for Michael to leave 
for work, and then I tried the subject 
as tactfully as I could. 

"Darling," I said, "it will seem 
strange, not going to work with you." 

He looked at me, and he looked at 
the clock. I didn't say anything, but I 
held my breath, waiting. Finally he 
got up and put on his hat and went to 
the door. He yanked it open and went 
out without another word. I watched 
him go to the hall stairs and then I ran 
to the bannister. 

"Phone me and let me know how 
things are," I called after him. 

He didn't answer. I thought he didn't 
trust himself to speak, that what he 
intended to do took all the struggle he 
could manage. 

It was an hour or two later that the 
telephone rang. But it wasn't Michael. 
It was one of the pressmen at the plant. 
They had a big color job to do and 
without Michael it couldn't get started. 
Obviously they hadn't gotten a new 
foreman, yet, and just as obviously, 
Michael wasn't going to show up. 

I was wide awake when I heard his 



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R 

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84 



Beech-Nut Gum 

The yellow package . . . with the red oval 



key in the lock, but I pretended to be 
asleep. He got undressed and came to 
bed and I knew he had been drinking. 
He fell asleep in a moment and because 
he was beside me at last, I slept, too. 

The days passed drearily. Michael 
wasn't going back to the plant and he 
wasn't looking for another job. And 
our money was going fast. Michael 
had never been the saving kind. 

1 knew it would do no good to argue 
with him. Something would have to 
happen soon. So I just watched him 
and waited. I seemed to fall into the 
same kind of stupor Michael was in; 
it was as though neither of us cared 
what happened. 

Then one morning I came to with a 
start. The landlord had just been in to 
see me about the unpaid rent, and when 
I went around to the grocer, he 
wouldn't give us any more credit. 

I came back to the apartment and 
opened the door. And for a moment a 
wave of dizziness came over me, and I 
thought I was going to faint. I went 
unsteadily to the kitchen and got a 
glass of water. Well, I had to face it 
now. I knew what it was. I had sus- 
pected it for several days, though I'd 
said nothing to Michael. Now I was 
sure I was going to have a baby. 

I pulled myself together. There wa& 
something I'd been planning to do, and 
now I was going to do it. I put on my 
best dress and fixed my hair. For once 
I was glad Michael wasn't there. I 
didn't want to tell him I was going over 
to the Interstate Press to have a talk 
with the president, old Mr. Bogart. 

Mr. Bogart seemed glad to see me, 
when I walked into his office. 

"I was expecting you," he said. "You, 
or Michael. I hoped it would be 
Michael." 

I DIDN'T have the courage or strength 
*■ to lead tactfully up to the subject. I 
just plunged in. 

"Oh, Mr. Bogart," I said, "I know 
Michael is impulsive. But if you'll 
only. ..." 

He stopped me. "Don't apologize 
for your husband. I want him to 
apologize for himself." 

He swung around in his swivel chair 
and looked at me steadily. "I'm hold- 
ing Michael's job open for just one 
reason, young lady. It is because I'm a 
business man and I know Michael is 
the best printing foreman in the state." 

Then his stern face relaxed. "I can't 
help liking that Irishman of yours," he 
said. "And from what I've been able 
to learn, my son had it coming to him." 

I started to thank him gratefully, 
but he stopped me, holding up his 
hand. "That doesn't excuse Michael. 
Not for a minute. It's time he learned 
better sense. He'll have to come back 
and apologize, if he wants his job." 

When I got back to the apartment, I 
looked in the kitchen to see what I 
could find for dinner. There was a can 
of spaghetti and some stale bread and 
jam. That was about all. 

In silence — the dull silence of indif- 
ference — we sat down at the table. 
Michael looked at the spaghetti. He 
touched the stale bread. 

"The grocer wouldn't give us any 
more credit," I said. 

He started to eat the spaghetti, but 
it seemed as though he couldn't swal- 
low it. Suddenly he pushed back his 
chair and got up. 

"It isn't much of a meal for a big 
healthy man," I said, "but it's all we 
have." He could feel the light cruelty 
in my voice, I knew. 

He came back and sat down quietly. 

"Ann," he said, "why don't you get 



mad at me? Why don't you yell and call 
me names? Why do you just sit — ?" 

"Because I don't happen to be Julie." 

I saw him wince, and I didn't even 
care. 

He started again to eat the spaghetti. 
I could see how hungry he was. After 
a while he stopped and looked at me. 
There was an apology in his eyes. 

"Tomorrow," he said, "I'll look for 
another job." 

"Another job?" I said. "How many 
foreman's jobs are there?" 

"Ann," he said, "I know there's noth- 
ing I can say that will make you 
respect me." 

"Yes there is, Michael," I told him. 
"You can tell me you're going to go 
back and apologize to Mr. Bogart. You 
can tell me you're going to try to get 
your old job back." 

There was a long silence. I could see 
how he was struggling with himself. 

"Will that win back your respect?" 
he asked, finally, in that funny, ques- 
tioning, little-boy way of his. And 
then, of course, I couldn't be cold to 
him any longer. I reached across the 
table and took his hand. 

"Oh, Michael," I said, "it will. It 
will!" 

He got up and came around to me, 
and once more I was in his arms, where 
I had so wanted to be, trying to keep 
back my tears. 

When I told him what I had done, 
about the talk with Mr. Bogart, and 
what he had said, Michael seemed 
terribly grateful. For the first time in 
much too long I felt the warm, sweet 
relationship between us coming to life 
once more. 

II E reached out a big hand and ruffled 
•*-■* my hair, and his voice was gruff the 
way it always was when he tried to 
thank you for anything. 

"I don't know what I ever did to 
deserve such a wife," he said. 

And so I was happy again. It takes 
so little to make a woman happy when 
she's in love — a word, a gesture will do 
it. And at once I was bursting with 
my news. I'd meant to keep it for a 
while, but now I couldn't hold back 
any longer. I'd wanted to wait until 
Michael got his job back, until he was 
on his feet again for his own sake, and 
not just because he was driven to it by 
the burden of responsibilities — not just 
because I was going to have a baby. 

I put out my hand to him. "Michael," 
I began, "there's something I've been 
waiting to tell — " 

And then the doorbell rang. 

I glanced down at our meager din- 
ner, and Michael's eyes followed mine. 
I knew that he was thinking the same 
thing I was thinking — that we were 
both ashamed to let anyone see that 
dinner table and what was on it. Mi- 
chael stood hesitating, reluctant. 

"I'll go," I said. 

I went to the door and opened it. 
And when I saw that beautiful woman 
with the proudly tilted chin, saw the 
way she was dressed, so sleek and 
smart in the perfect suit, the perfect 
hat, I didn't have to be told who it was. 

I knew I was looking at Julie. 



Just as Ann has managed to begin 
the salvaging of her happiness, Julie 
has returned to snatch it from her 
once more. The memory of Julie, like 
a shadow over their marriage, has been 
bad enough — but what can happen to 
Ann and to Michael now that Julie 
herself is back again? Don't miss the 
exciting instalment of "Come Back, 
Beloved!" in September Radio Mirror. 




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You Held Me Close 

Continued from page 36 






R 

M 

86 



D- r Scho//s Zinopads 



of the brief case where he held it. 

"What happened?" I asked as soon as 
the door had closed behind him. 

"Nothing." He stopped beside my 
desk. Although he was looking at me 
I had the feeling that he didn't see me 
at all. "Nothing, except that he 
wouldn't even listen. I tried to tell him 
I didn't want him to lend me any of 
the bank's money, but he just passed 
over that as if I hadn't said it. Kept 
talking about his responsibilities to the 
stockholders — Lord! I hope he chokes 
on his money!" 

"Mark — I'm so sorry!" 

His eyes came back to me, from a 
tremendous distance, but there was still 
a tight, aching look around his jaw. 
"Sorry — " he repeated. "Yeah. Well, 
I shouldn't have hoped for anything, 
I guess . . . I'll call you tonight." 

With a lunge, he turned on his heel 
and went out the little gate in the 
railing that separated my office from 
the rest of the bank floor. 

HE didn't call me that night. Not 
that night, nor the next. 

No one knew that I was listening for 
the telephone with not only my ears 
— with my skin, my muscles, my whole 
being. I would not let my family know 
I cared. I would hardly let myself 
know. I thought, what else could I 
have expected? In spite of anything 
he had said, there was only one thing 
he cared about — his invention, and get- 
ting money to finance its development. 
I tried to build the walls around my 
heart again, but the materials weren't 
there any longer. Indifference and 
distrust and cynicism were gone. There 
was nothing left but grief and humil- 
iation and a crushed unhappiness. 

I knew the telephone number of the 
rooming house where he lived, but I 
would not call it. 

Then, on Thursday morning the 
thing happened that was so devastating, 
so dreadful, it drove even thought of 
Mark from my mind. 

There is usually one time of day 
when business drops off at the bank — 
from a little after eleven until shortly 
before twelve. The morning rush has 
ended and the noon one hasn't begun. 
It was in this slack period that it hap- 
pened. 

The bank has two entrances — the 
main one, from the street, and a side 
door that opens into the lobby of the 
office building of which the bank takes 
up the ground floor. My desk was quite 
near this second entrance, between it 
and the street door, and I'd got used 
to having people walk back and forth, 
past me, to use it. That's why the 
first intimation I had that anything 
was wrong was the sudden hush that 
fell over the big room. 

I looked up — to see a man standing 
outside my railing, and two other men 
farther down the room, by the tellers' 
cages. All three wore masks and all 
three carried revolvers. 

For a paralyzed eternity I stared at 
the man near me. I wasn't frightened, 
but I was so shocked I couldn't move. 
His gruff warning to sit still and be- 
have myself wasn't needed, really. 

Then, in a rush, my senses returned 
to me. This man, I saw, was watching 
both me and the entrances. He was 
in the angle where my railing met the 
street wall, where he couldn't be seen 
by anyone entering the bank until too 
late for them to retreat and give an 



alarm. One of the other men had 
made the tellers leave their cages and 
was herding them into a group with the 
few customers present. The remaining 
man had entered one of the cages and 
was systematically putting money into 
a leather satchel. 

Instinct told me that the one guard- 
ing me was nervous. It wasn't that his 
hand, holding the gun, trembled — it 
was just the tenseness of his attitude, 
the forward thrust of his head. 

Without realizing that I did so, I 
moved my hand slightly, and he started 
and growled in an abnormally deep 
voice, "I told you to sit still, sister, and 
you wouldn't get hurt." 

.The man with the satchel was com- 
ing swiftly toward us now, and the 
other one was backing warily away 
from the group of people. The one 
near me shifted a step — 

The door to Mr. Harrington's office 
clicked. 

The man near me whirled to face 
this new threat to his safety, and as he 
did so I heard a soft sound, sharp and 
yet muffled, like the breaking of a 
tightly stretched string. The other 
two broke into a run. I turned and 
saw Mr. Harrington standing in the 
doorway of his office, a surprised look 
on his face and one hand pressed to 
his chest. While I watched, he fell 
slowly to the floor. 

I remember nothing very clearly 
about the rest of that day. I knew 
the men had escaped; they'd had 
a car with another man in it, waiting 
outside the bank. And I knew Mr. 
Harrington was dead. Beyond that, 
everything was a jumble. I hadn't been 
frightened at the time, and now I was 
paying for it. The reaction set in, and 
I couldn't stop trembling, couldn't think 
clearly. The police asked me questions, 
but I had a hard time answering them, 
I was crying so hard. 

"But you saw the man who did the 
shooting — can't you describe him?" 

"Why, he — he was just a man with 
his face covered. He was — I think he 
was tall." 

"Six feet?" 

1 — ABOUT that. Maybe not quite. I 
-*- don't really remember." 

"What was he wearing?" 

"Just an ordinary suit — dark brown, 
I think it was." 

"Hm," the policeman grunted, and 
made a note. "He spoke to you, you 
said." 

"Yes." I pounced upon this one de- 
tail that I remembered. "He had a 
very deep voice. It sounded," I re- 
alized suddenly, "disguised." 

"Why should he disguise it?" the 
policeman demanded. "Could he have 
been someone you know?" 

"Oh, I don't think so — at least, I can't 
believe — " 

"And that's all you remember? 
Nothing else, even a little thing?" 

"No," I said, and he let me go. 

But there was something else — in a 
way, that is. Buried far back in my 
mind, I had a feeling there was some- 
thing else I'd noticed about the man, 
something that might be important. 
Whatever it was, it had been an im- 
pression so fleeting that now it was 
gone. If I could only put my finger 
on it! 

When I went home I was very nearly 
in a state of collapse. My mother and 
father and brother knew about the 



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robbery and murder, of course, and 
wanted to talk about it, but I couldn't 
bear to answer their questions. I ran 
to my room and locked myself in. 

Sitting on the edge of my bed, my 
hands clenched until the nails scarred 
my palms, I knew there was one person 
I wanted to see — must see. Mark. I 
needed him. I flung open my door and 
ran to the telephone. 

A few minutes later I hung up, 
slowly. I hadn't talked to Mark. I'd 
talked to his landlady, who said that 
he'd left town two days before, with- 
out telling her when he'd be back. 

Suddenly, my home and all my ac- 
customed surroundings were intoler- 
able. I wanted to get away, to some- 
where entirely new. Not for a long 
time; a few days would be enough. 
There was a little inn where the Pren- 
tices had gone for their vacation, up in 
the mountains. The vacation season 
was over now, and not many people 
would be there. It would be quiet, 
peaceful . . . 

Hastily, I telephoned Mr. Richards, 
the cashier of the bank. He must have 
guessed from my voice how desperately 
near to breaking I was, because he im- 
mediately gave me permission to take 
a few days off. 

Before I went to bed that night I 
packed a suitcase, telephoned the inn 
to make sure it was open, bathed — did 
everything, in fact, to postpone the mo- 
ment when I must try to sleep. 

AT last I took a sedative and lay down, 
** and after a while I dozed. But 
I woke with a scream on my lips. It 
seemed to me that I was facing Mr. 
Harrington's murderer again, and that 
this time there was blood on his hands. 
"Who are you?" I cried. And he an- 
swered, lifting his hand to remove his 
mask, "Don't you know?" I knew I 
must not see the face under the mask, 
and that was when I screamed. 

After that I didn't sleep any more. 

Weariness and shock were like an 
anesthetic, the next day, drugging my 
mind so that I could dress and catch 
the train, sit in it with a magazine on 
my lap, get off at the right station and 
take a bus to the inn — all without 
thinking too much. The inn was beau- 
tiful — a white frame house nestled 
among autumn-blazing hills — and I 
said to myself that being here would 
do me good. 

It was after dinner that I walked into 
the main hall and saw Mark standing 
there, smiling at me. 

I couldn't believe it was he. This 
was an illusion, part of the unreality 
that had been wrapped around me like 
a smothering cloak. Then he took a 
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of joy ran through my veins. In an 
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the woman there said you'd left town 
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went out of my head. I've got some 
swell news. Elinor. I just got back to 
town this afternoon, and when I called 
your house and your mother told me 
where you were— well, I just had to 
get up here as fast as I could to share 
it with you." 

He couldn't even wait to tell me un- 
til we'd sat down in one of the deep 
sofas near the fireplace, but blurted it 
out on the way. "I've got the money to 
develop the 'chute tester! It was just 
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too good to be true. Long ago — oh, 
two or three months — I wrote to the 
Aeronautical Research Foundation in 
Chicago, asking for their help. I didn't 
hear from them, and gave it up as just 
another hope that didn't pan out. Then, 
when I walked into the house after 
seeing Harrington — just when I was 
lowest — I found this telegram. 

"It was from a man in Chicago, ask- 
ing me to come up and see him. He's 
not a member of the Foundation, but 
he knows one of its officials, and this 
official just happened to mention my 
invention to him one day. He was in- 
terested — he wanted to invest in some- 
thing that would help the war, but 
he's sort of eccentric; he wouldn't have 
anything to do with guns or poison 
gasses or things of that sort. He liked 
the idea of the tester, he said, because 
it would save our men's lives, not kill 
the enemy." 

"I'm so glad, Mark," I told him. "So 
very, very glad." And I added some- 
thing that once I wouldn't have thought 
of saying to any man. "I've missed 
you terribly. Most of all yesterday." 

"I know," he said, grave now. "I 
found out about it when I tried to 
call you at the bank, the minute I got 
in this morning. It must have been 
pretty awful for you. But for the next 
couple of days you're supposed to for- 
get all about it — d'you hear?" 

I smiled up at him. "That'll be easy — 
now," I said. 

"Tomorrow we'll have the hotel put 
up a picnic lunch for us, and we'll 
go up into the hills and . . ." 

His voice trailed away. He was 
looking at me with an intensity that 
made my skin tingle, and I thought of 
sunlit hours when we would be alone. 

I struggled to free myself from the 
spell of enchantment. I remembered, 
just then, that I must not give anyone 
the power to hurt me — which meant, 
quite simply, that I must not allow my- 
self to love anyone. 

I forced myself to speak. "Tell me 
about your trip to Chicago," I said. 
"Who's the man that's helping you?" 

"My backer?" Mark seemed to come 
back to earth with an effort, too, and 
he laughed a little. "That's one thing 
I'm not allowed to tell anyone. He 
doesn't want his name connected with 
it in any way — I gathered — because he 
was pretty outspoken about keeping 
out of the war before Pearl Harbor 
and hates to admit publicly that he 
was wrong. But I told you he was 
eccentric. And people get funny 
ideas. Like — " his eyes crinkled at the 
corners — "like I don't feel as if I even 
want to think about the invention 
right now. All I want to do is sit here 
and look at you." 

TPHE log in the fireplace changed from 
■*• a bright beacon of flame to a crum- 
pled bed of coals while we sat there — 
sometimes talking, sometimes silent, 
and yet seeming to say more important 
things in our silence than we could 
have in words. When the grandfath- 
er's clock on the landing chimed eleven 
and we heard the middle-aged clerk 
fussing around in his cubicle at the 
end of the hall, Mark stood up and 
held out his hand to pull me up. "Time 
for bed," he said. "You look dead 
tired." 

Upstairs, in the deserted corridor, 
we stopped in front of my door and he 
bent, without a word, to kiss me. Our 
bodies flowed together, our lips met as 
our hearts had all evening, in sympathy 
and understanding. 

"Good night, dear," he whispered 



when at last we drew apart. "Sleep 
well." 

I went in and closed the door behind 
me, knowing a tranquil happiness that 
was so strange and new to me that 
everything — myself, the room, my 
toilet articles on the bureau — seemed 
changed and unfamiliar. I was almost 
afraid to sleep for fear I'd wake up in 
the morning and find it had all been 
something I dreamed. 

Just before I drifted into sleep, by 
one of those quirks of the mind when 
its waking reins have been slackened, 
I had a half-conscious realization of 
something unfinished . . . something not 
quite in order, something forgotten. In 
another minute I'd remember . . . 

But sleep denied me that extra 
minute. 

MARK and I had breakfast together, 
and then we set out through the 
golden woods, Mark carrying the picnic 
hamper slung over his arm. Perhaps we 
didn't really walk very far. I hardly 
noticed where we were going. But 
suddenly, when the sun was high 
overhead and we'd come to a grassy 
clearing, we both discovered we were 
hungry. 

We were very gay as we ate, but 
afterwards, there in the bright, thin 
sunlight, came a silence. I knew Mark's 
eyes were on me, steady and demand- 
ing. I did not look up, but I felt the 
pull of his desire. In a moment he 
leaned across the spread-out table 
cloth between us and as if it were the 
most natural thing in the world I bent 
toward him, too, and our lips met in 
a long, sweet kiss. And when he 
drew me into his arms I nestled there 
with the feeling that it was there I 
belonged. 

"Happy?" he whispered. 

"Oh — so very happy!" I rubbed my 
cheek against the fabric of his coat. 
"Happier than I've ever been. I feel 
as if it's almost a sin to be so happy, 
only two days after poor Mr. Harring- 
ton — " 

"You promised to forget that," he re- 
minded me. "Forget it absolutely — 
wipe it out, just like that." He made 
the strange little dismissing gesture 
I'd noticed him make once before — a 
short, sharp movement of his left hand, 
clenched into a fist. 

I didn't stir. I lay there, held by 
him, mv eyes still on his hand, and 
everything clicked horribly into place 
in my mind. 

Now I knew what it was I'd forgotten. 

That gesture — it was precisely the 
one made by the murderer when I 
moved involuntarily and he ordered me 
to be quiet. 

But what of it? What of it? my heart 
cried. Couldn't two people have the 
same unconscious mannerism? Yes, 
they could, although it would be a co- 
incidence. But there were other things, 
too: Mark's fanatical determination to 
get backing for his work, his convic- 
tion that it was more important than 
the right of people to the money they 
owned, his rage when Mr. Harrington 
had refused him, his absence from town 
on the day of the robbery, and worst of 
all, his sudden return with the news 
that some mysterious and nameless 
benefactor had agreed to help him. 

Involuntarily, I shivered, and Mark 
said, "Cold?" 

"No, I — " I stammered. "Well, yes 
— maybe a little." I sat up, fumbled in 
the grass for my pocketbook — anything 
to keep busy, to act natural, to keep 
him from seeing the terrible suspicion 
Continued on page 90 



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10 YEARS YOUNGER 



R 
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Continued from page 88 



that was in my mind. 

Through stiff lips, I said, "You just 
got back from Chicago yesterday morn- 
ing, didn't you?" 

"Why — yes," he said in a puzzled 
tone. "I told you, didn't I?" 

I nodded, still keeping my face a little 
averted, trying desperately to think of 
some way I could lead him into giving 
me proof it hadn't been he in the bank. 

"Something's wrong," he said quick- 
ly. "What's the matter?" 

"That way you moved your hand," 
I said, the words burning my throat. 
"Like this — " I showed him. 

"Like — But what about it?" 

"One of the robbers — the one that 
killed Mr. Harrington — made the same 
gesture. Exactly the same. I'd for- 
gotten, until I saw you do it, just now." 

He sat without moving a muscle, 
propped up on one arm. 

"And you think I'm the man," Mark 
said finally. "Is that it?" 

J PRESSED the back of my hand 
against my forehead. "Mark— I don't 
know! If it was just the gesture — but 
you were so angry at Mr. Harrington, 
and you left town so suddenly, and — 
and you won't tell me the name of the 
man who gave you the money for your 
invention. What else can I think?" 

He pushed once, hard, with the arm 
that was propping him up, got to his 
feet. "Maybe we'd better start back 
to the inn," he said, and when he fin- 
ished speaking his lips settled into a 
thin hard line. 

"But Mark — aren't you going to tell 
me it wasn't you?" I cried. 

"Do you want me to?" he asked. 
"Would it make a difference?" 

"I — " More than anything, I wanted 
to say yes. But I couldn't. He had 
already told me he was in Chicago the 
day of the robbery and murder. If 
that had been a lie, a denial now would 
be a lie too. 

He read my thoughts, and went back 
to packing the hamper. 

I love this man, I thought. How can 
I believe he would do such a thing? 
But I had loved Bill, too. At the time, 
I wouldn't have believed him capable 
of callously throwing me aside when 
the chance came to marry another girl 
who would help him get ahead in the 
world. Yet that was what he had done. 

The trip back to the hotel was an 
endless torture. The sunlight mocked 
me, and every step I took was a re- 
minder of how happy I had been only 
a few hours before. Mark spoke only 
once, just before we got to the inn. 

"Are you going to tell the police?" 

"I — I don't know," I said lifelessly. 

Without stopping, he went on into 
the inn. I ran up to my own room, 
flung myself across the bed. 

While I lay there, the bright square 
of sunlight crept across the floor, nar- 
rowed, and vanished. Purple dusk sifted 
in at the windows, and still I did not 
get up. My eyes were open, but I 
didn't see the room. Instead, I was 
seeing a procession of pictures — pic- 
tures of Mark — as if by calling up his 
image so vividly I could learn to know 
it and the thoughts behind it. And I 
saw pictures of the murderer, too. 
Again and again I looked at him as he 
had stood there in the bank, and always 
he looked like Mark in my mind. 

At last the picture wavered and 
blurred, to be replaced, strangely, by 
the memory-faded image of Bill — Bill, 
whom I was once supposed to marry. 
And suddenly my whole life was 
blocked out before me, like a picture 



puzzle with the pieces being auto- 
matically moved into their proper 
places. I knew, now, why I remem- 
bered Bill. I remembered him be- 
cause, for the first time in my narrow 
mind, the thought had intruded itself 
that I might have been responsible for 
losing Bill. 

My face burned hot against the pil- 
low. Was it really the loss of Bill that 
had made me petty and suspicious? 
Hadn't 1 been that way before? Hadn't 
I always cross-questioned Bill closely, 
more like a lawyer than a sweetheart? 
Hadn't I always wanted to know ex- 
actly where he had been and what he 
had been doing, what the other end of 
a telephone conversation was, why he 
had thrown his money away on some 
foolish trifle, if it wouldn't be more 
sensible to go to the movies than to 
pay the minimum charge at the night 
club where he'd wanted to go danc- 
ing? Hadn't I always nagged a little, 
harped a little on insignificant things? 
And couldn't that be the reason — oh, 
a good part of the reason, at least — 
why Bill had left me and married 
Tess? Couldn't it have been more 
that Tess was gay and carefree and 
never questioning and suspicious, as 
much as the fact that Tess had money? 

And now — about Mark. I knew, 
now. I knew that there was no faith 
in me. I must pick to the very bones 
every statement, every gesture, trying 
to find something wrong, reading in 
something wrong even if it were not 
there. I had lost Bill this way. Hadn't 
I lost Mark this way, too? 

AT last the pictures wavered and 
■ blurred — and I sat up. 

From somewhere deen within me 
there had come knowledge, certainty. 
It did not spring from any thought pro- 
cess. It was pure instinct, fighting its 
way past memory and doubt. I knew 
the murderer had not been Mark. 

With one bound I was off the bed, 
running to the door and down the cor- 
ridor to Mark's room. Fear that he 
might have left, gone back to town, 
almost choked me. With both hands 
I hammered on the wood of his door 
When it flew open I stumbled and near- 
ly fell into his arms. 

"Mark!" I sobbed. "I came to tell 
you — I know it wasn't you! I don't 
know how, but I'm sure. Mark!" 

He was holding me close, whispering 
soft, wordless sounds, kissing my eyes, 
my hair, my lips. 

And then, after a while, he said, "It 
seems like a miracle that you came, of 
your own accord. I was just going to 
show you — this." 

Taking one arm from around me, he 
held out what he'd been holding in his 
hand all the time. 

It was a newspaper. Black headlines 
stood out. "BANK ROBBERS CAP- 
TURED, CONFESS." 

While I still stared at it, unable to 
speak, he said, "This would have con- 
vinced you — but it wouldn't have 
helped us." 

"Oh. Mark," I cried, "there's been a 
devil in me — a kind of suspicious devil 
I couldn't get rid of — " 

"I know," he agreed. "I've felt it. 
It was always there, or nearly always, 
trying to keep you from loving me." 

"It's gone now! It won't ever come 
back!" 

Mark put one hand under my chin, 
tilting it upward. "That's good," he 
said. "Very good. Because now there's 
nothing to stop us from getting mar- 
ried, is there?" 





ON THE WAR FRONT— ON THE HOME FRONT 



Thousands of feet above the earth a flyer 
bails out into space. Then ... a few tense 
moments and his dependable parachute 
lands him . . . SAFELY. 

Making dependable parachutes has 
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Frocks, Inc. We are proud of the part 
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How many parachutes have come off of 
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acquired in making dresses for over 35 
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DEPENDABLE! ... a "must" 
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Our stylists have accomplished wonders, 
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Every Fashion Frock is of dependable 
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Fashion' Frocks values have always en- 
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You will enjoy buying dresses direct, 
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FASHION FROCKS, INC. 

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Guaranteed by '** 
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FALL STYLE 512 






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Keep your Camay dry! 
After lathering- put 
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Use Every Sliver! 
Make a bathmit from 
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^AGAZ I N E OF 



i O R O 




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■IERYL WALKER 



SOLDIER' 



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oman Who Waits 



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See how the CAMAY MILD-SOAP DIET 
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• Loveliness men cherish— the charm of 
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Save Soap -it's Patriotic 

Make each cake of Camay give 
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America's Loveliest Brides follow the Mild -Soap Diet! 




1. KEEP CAMAY DR 

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SEPTEMBER, 1943 




THE MAGAZINE OF RADIO ROMANCES 



VOL 20, NO. 5 



FRED R. SAMMIS 
Editorial Director 



DORIS McFERRAN 
Managing Editor 



BELLE LAN DESMAN 
Associate Editor 



JACK ZASORIN 
Art Editor 



CONTENTS 

Unexpected Kiss 19 

"I Will Fear No Evil" 22 

Soldier's Wife 24 

Front Page Farrell — In Living Portraits 28 

To My Unborn Baby 31 

Harvest of Hope 32 

I Love a Mystery 36 

When You Love Only Once 38 

Here Is Happiness 43 

Who's The Best Dressed Man in America? 44 

Come Back, Beloved! 46 

Time Out For Lunch 50 



ADDED 

Did You know? 

Facing The Music Ken Alden 

What's New From Coast to Coast. . . Dale Banks 

Beauty On Hand Roberta Ormiston 

"The Girl Named Eileen" 



ATTRACTIONS 

3 Introducing Bob Hawk 18 

Olivio Santoro and Bobby Hookey 49 

Ambassador of Good Will 51 

It Happened in Oran 52 



Introducing Vera Barton 17 



Inside Radio. 



55 



ON THE COVER — Cheryl Walker of radio's Stage Door Canteen on CBS and star of Sol Lesser's movie of the same name 

Color Portrait by De Brocke Studios 




MaM Ji 



We dedicate to tlie WAACS.. . 




Irresistible answers the call to color with Yankee 
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THE first winter of fuel oil 
rationing proved positively 
that the homes best prepared 
to conserve heat were the ones 
that got along best under the 
rationing program. Right now 
is the time to check your heat 
conservation measures, ar- 
range for insulation, storm 
sash, weatherstripping, well in 
advance of the first frost. 

* * * 

Fuel, both oil and coal, 
should be purchased as soon 
as possible, too, in an effort to 
equalize demands on transpor- 
tation facilities. Heating plants 
should be checked, repaired 
and cleaned while they're not 
in use. Your fuel oil coupons 
for next heating season will be 
valid for use by the time you 
read this — storage tanks should 
be filled before the heating 
season begins. All the oil you 
get into your tanks during 
warm weather means that 
much more storage space in 
dealers' tanks for holding re- 
serves for next winter. 

* * * 

A stock pot in the refrigera- 
tor is an economy no house- 
wife will overlook on these 
waste-nothing days. Into it 
goes meat juices and broths, 
water drained from cooked 
vegetables. Out of it comes the 
base for delicious soups, sauces 
and gravies. Even bones 
shouldn't be discarded these 
days — at least, not until you've 
boiled them down in a little 
water and added the resulting 
broth to your stock pot. 



RADIO MIRROR, published monthly by 
MACFADDEN PUBLICATIONS, Inc., 
Washington and South Avenues, Dunel- 
len, New Jersey. General Business, Ad- 
vertising and Editorial Offices: 205 East 
42nd Street, New York 17, N. Y. O. J. 
Elder, President; Carroll Rheinstrom, 
Executive Vice President; Harold A. 
Wise, Vice President; Walter Hanlon, 
Advertising Director. Chicago office, 221 
North La Salle St., E. F. Lethen, Jr., 
Mgr. Pacific Coast Offices: San Fran- 
cisco, 420 Market Street, Hollywood, 
8949 Sunset Blvd., Lee Andrews, Mana- 

fer. Reentered as second-class matter 
eptember 17, 1942, at the Post Office at 
Dunellen, New Jersey, under the Act of 
March 3, 1879. Price per copy in United 
States and Canada 15c. Subscription 
price S1.50 per year in United States and 
Possessions, Canada and Newfoundland, 
S2.50 per year in Cuba, Mexico, Haiti, 
Dominican Republic, Spain and Posses- 
sions, and Central and South American 
countries, excepting British Honduras. 
British, Dutch and French Guiana. All 
other countries S3. 50 per year. While 
Manuscripts, Photographs and Drawings 
are submitted at the owner's risk, every 
effort will be made to return those found 
unavailable if accompanied by sufficient 
first-class postage, and explicit name and 
address. Contributors are especially ad- 
vised to be sure to retain copies of "their 
contributions: otherwise they are taking 
unnecessary risk. The contents of this 
magazine (Member of Macfadden Wom- 
en's Group) may not be printed, either 
wholly or in part without permission. 
Copyright, 1943, by the Macfadden Pub- 
lications. Inc. Title trademark regis- 
tered in U. S. Patent Office. Copyright 
also in Canada, registered at Stationer's 
Hall, Great Britain. 
Printed in the U. S. A. by Art Color 
Printing Company, Dunellen. N. J. 




Now's the time to show 

how much you love him ! 



Somehow, on Bill's last leave, you 
sensed it was going to be goodbye. 
And suddenly— in that fearful moment 
—you knew how much you really loved 
him! 

Loved him? Why, your sun rises and 
sets on that big overgrown boy who's 
gone across the seas. Nobody ever loved 
anyone else more than you love your 
Bill. Nobody could. 

And here's how you can prove your 
love— and show how deep it goes! 

Watch your spending. Give up things 
you don't need. Save a quarter here. 
Deny yourself a dollar's worth there. 

And put the money you save— every 
bit of it— into War Bonds! 

War Bonds will speed our tanks from 
the assembly lines to the battle lines . . . 
planes from blueprints to blue skies. 

War Bonds will help to plan the peace 
that will make victory stick. 

War Bonds are a part payment for the 
privilege of being a free American— and a 
down payment on your future joy and 
happiness with Bill. 



You don't have to consult a banker to 
know what a safe investment they are. 

They're secured by fertile fields and 
bustling mills— by all the wealth and 
enterprise that spell out U. S. A.! 

There's nothing better, for anybody's 
money. Buy more War Bonds today! 

Here's what War Bonds 
do for You: 

1 They provide the safest place in all the 
world for your savings. 

2 They are a written promise from the 
United States of America to pay you back 
every penn3" you put in. 

3 They pay you back $4 for every $3 you 
put in, at the end of ten years . . . accumulate 
interest at the rate of 2.9 per cent. 

4 The longer you hold them, the more 
they're worth. But, remember, if you need 
the money you may turn them in and get 
your cash back at any time after 60 days. 

5 7*/2ey are never worth less than the money 
you invested in them. They can't go down in 
value. Tliat's a promise from the financially 
strongest institution in the world; the United 
States of America. 



SAVE YOUR MONEY THE SAFEST WAY-BUY U. S. WAR BONDS REGULARLY 

Published in cooperation with the Drug, Cosmetic and Allied Industries by: 

MUM 

A Product of Bristol-Myers Co. 




Bill Stern, NBC's sports commen- 
tator, is caricatured by Xavier 
Cugat, who was a guest star on 
Stern's Sports Newsreel program. 



One of radio's popular singers 
returns to the air—Hildegarde, 
versatile entertainer, stars on 
NBC's Beat The Band on Tuesdays. 



KEN ALDEN 




GRACIE FIELDS has completed her 
Blue network series and returned 
to her native England. When she 
returns to this country this Fall her 
program will switch to Mutual. 

The Jan Savitts have a brand new 
baby girl. Jan will never forget the 
night the youngster was born. He and 
his band were all set to play an en- 
gagement in upstate New York. They 
had a difficult time getting there, due 
to transportation difficulties. They 
reached their destination, warm and 
tired, only to find the ballroom had 
burned down. Then Jan got word 
that his wife had been rushed to a New 
York city hospital. OPA agents flagged 
him but after relating his double- 
barreled troubles, the inspectors let 
him continue with their very best 
wishes. 

Lee Wiley, one of radio's better 
known singers and pianist Jess Stacy 
of the Benny Goodman band were mar- 
ried in Beverly Hills. 



Dick Haymes has replaced Buddy 

Clark on that Blue network cosmetic 

show. 

* * * 

Xavier Cugat has returned to the 
West Coast to make two more films, 
"Tale of Two Sisters" and "Tropicana." 



While Gladys Swarthout is vacation- 
ing from her CBS Family Hour pro- 
gram heard Sunday afternoons at 5:00 
P.M., EWT, the young American bari- 
tone, Mack Harrell is taking her place. 
* * * 

Skinnay Ennis is now a Warrant 



Officer in the Army — nice going, Skin 
. . . Jimmy Blair, that romantic voice on 
the Blue network, will be doing all his 
singing in khaki about the time you 
read this . . . Did you know that drum- 
mer Ray McKinley, who once had a 
band of his own, is now drumming in 
Glenn Miller's Army ork? . . . Sammy 
Kaye also loans a first sax player to 
the Army, name of George Brandon . . . 
Mel Powell, the pianist, has just been 
promoted to a corporal. 

* * * 

The big hotels in New York, Chicago, 
and Los Angeles are experiencing 
difficulties in booking name dance 
bands for next season. The orchestra 
leaders, able to make more money in 
movie and stage work, are turning 
down these so-called prestige offers. 
Dance bands play these hotels, often at 
financial losses, just to afford them- 
selves radio network wires. 



Enric Madriguera has junked his 
band. He and his pretty wife and 
vocalist, Patricia Gilmore, are play- 
ing theaters where Enric guest-con- 
ducts the house bands. 



The latest vogue in New York night 
clubs is starring romantic singers for- 
merly associated with big name or- 
chestras. In recent weeks Perry Como 
(formerly with Ten Weems) , Dick 
Haymes (formerly with Harry James), 
Frank Sinatra (formerly with Tommy 
Dorsey), Phil Brito (formerly with Jan 
Savitt) and Bob Hannon (formerly 
with Al Goodman) have all made night 
club appearances and won the cus- 
tomers' plaudits. Times have certainly 
changed. I remember the dear old 
days when a night club couldn't exist 
without a high kicking girlie show. 



Tommy Dorsey checked into MGM 
with forty-eight soiled shirts recently. 
He had just been playing a road tour 
through the Pacific Northwest and the 
shirts were laundry bound. Tommy 
explained that he had left Hollywood 
with sixteen shirts, but the band kept 
moving from town to town so fast that 
Tommy didn't stay put long enough to 
get a shirt laundered. When the 
original sixteen shirts were soiled, he 
began buying new ones. Incidentally, 
the laundry bill came to quite a figure. 

There's a good chance you will be 
hearing Glenn Miller and his band 
again over the airlanes. Plans are un- 
derway for Miller's top-flight Army 
Air Force band to broadcast regularly 
from their station at Yale University. 
Playing with Miller are pianist Mel 
Powell and drummer Ray McKinley. 

* * * 

Marilyn Duke, Vaughn Monroe's 
lanky but lovely singer is joining the 

WAACS. 

* * * 

Fats Waller wrote the entire musical 
score of the new Broadway musical, 
"Early to Bed." 

CBS is giving a buildup to Califor- 
nia's young Jeri Sullivan, who only a 
month ago was singing quietly on a 
local Nashville station. A dead ringer 
for Margaret Sullavan, Jeri used to 
sing with Claude Thornhill and Art 
Jarrett. 

$ # * 

Anita O'Day is Woody Herman's new 
canary, replacing Carolyn Grey who 
has gone into war work. 

* * * . 

Newest gentleman farmer is "Hit 
Continued on page 6 




Do your best •• • and 



8£/?ry0#x s£sr 







THESE are simple obligations, 
to our country, to our men at 
the front, and to ourselves. 

No matter what your job or your 
share in the war effort, give it all 
you've got ... do your best all of 
the time. 

That means keeping strong, keep- 
ing healthy. This job's going to take 
every bit of stamina we can muster. 
And health is your greatest asset. 

But as you work, don't forget to 
play. Play is the great equalizet. 
Make it part of your life. Step forth. 
Go places. Meet people. Cultivate 
old friends and make new ones — 
lots of them. And try to be at your 
best in appearance and personality. 
Don't let down. Keep cheerful. 
Keep going. Put your best foot 
forward. That's the way the boys at 
the front would like it. 

1 1 1 

As a safe, efficient household anti- 
septic for use in a thousand little 
emergencies, Listerine Antiseptic 
has stood pre-eminent for more 
than half a century. In the later 
years it has established a truly im- 
pressive test record against Amer- 
ica's No. 1 health problem, the 
ordinary cold, and its frequent 
attribute, sore throat. 

It is hardly necessary to add. that, 
because of its germicidal action 



« 



which halts bacterial fermentation 
in the mouth, Listerine Antiseptic 
is the social standby of millions 
who do not wish to offend need- 
lessly in the matter of halitosis 
(unpleasant breath) when not of 
systemic origin. 

Lambert Pharmacal Company 
St. Louis, Mo. 



NOTICE TO THE PUBLIC . . . Be- 

cause of wartime restrictions you may 
not always be able to get Listerine Anti- 
septic in your favorite size. Rest assured, 
however, that we will make every effort 
to see that this trustworthy antiseptic is 
always available in some size at your 
drug counter. 



LISTERINE ANTISEPTIC for Oral Hygiene 




War workers cheer 
the extra freedom 



WITH TAMPAX 



NO PINS 
NO PADS 
NO ODOR 



Things move fast in war time. Changes 
that might take years now happen in 
weeks . . .Jammed buses, overtime hours, 
crowded rest-rooms — and great numbers 
of these slack-wearing girls find Tampax 
practically a necessity . . . For Tampax is 
sanitary protection that you wear inter- 
nally. No bulging or bunching under the 
slacks, and you can change it "quick as 
a wink!" No belts, pins or pads. And 
wonder of wonders, no odor! 

Tampax was perfected by a doctor for 
smart, modern women, for dainty sensi- 
tive women, for war workers, nurses, 
housewives, office girls, college girls — 
for active mothers and daughters . . . Easy 
disposal; no sanitary deodorant needed. 
Made of pure surgical cotton, it comes 
in neat patented applicator, so your 
hands need never touch the Tampax. 

Remember the 3 sizes, especially the Super, 
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At drug stores or notion counters. Intro- 
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till next month! Tampax Incorporated, 
Palmer, Mass. 



3 Absorbencies 

REGULAR 
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Accepted for Adver- 
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Medical Association. 




"If you want a thing done, do it 
yourself" — that's the motto of 
bandleader Ray Heatherton, and 
that's what brought him success. 




Parade" conductor Mark Warnow. He 
has purchased a 105-acre farm in 
Ridgefield, Conn. 



Ted Lewis will play himself in the 
movie version of his own life. Col- 
umbia will produce it and title it 
"When My Baby Smiles At Me." 



The drive for records for our fight- 
ing men is again in full swing and 
FACING THE MUSIC urges its read- 
ers to pitch in, gather their dusty or 
unused records, turn them over to the 
American Legion, so from this scrap, 
new ones can be sent to our service 
men here and overseas. 

General Henry Arnold, chief of 
Army Air Forces, said after a 35,000 
mile tour of the fronts that the only 
request he heard our boys make was 
for some new phonograph records. 

* * * 

Two former bandleaders, Sonny 
James and George Auld, have been 
given honorable discharges from the 
Army. 

* * * 

To circumvent the musicians' re- 
cording ban, Columbia and Decca re- 
cently had singers Frank Sinatra and 
Dick Haymes make new disks with 
choral backgrounds substituting for 
musical instruments. 



Jimmy Lunceford is playing a saxo- 
phone again. The famous bandleader 
has decided to join his reed section, 
making up for the departure of Don 
Grissom. 

HALF PINT OF SCOTCH 

AT first, things were almost too 
easy for Ray Heatherton, the 
slightly-built, smooth-v o i c e d singer 
whose attractive dance band has be- 
come as much of an institution of New 




Pretty Ruth Doring is the sultry- 
voiced contralto of the Double 
Daters quartet heard on NBC's 
Million Dollar Band Saturdays. 



York's Hotel Biltmore as the hostelry's 
famed lobby clock. 

When he was seventeen, flushed with 
the plaudits for his vocal work in Long 
Island home town church socials and 
amateur theatricals, Ray needed little 
encouragement to get up and sing one 
night in the Pavilion Royale road 
house. The great Paul Whiteman 
heard the Scotch-Irish high school lad 
and hired him on the spot. 

Ray's blue eyes glistened when he 
recalled that happy event. 

"Boy, the world was my oyster. 
Overnight I had crashed the big time 
without experiencing the hard knocks." 

The king of jazz used the ex-choir 
boy on his network radio program, 
planned big things for him just as he 
did for other proteges like Bing Crosby, 
Jack Fulton, and Mildred Bailey. 

"Gosh, in those days I did the solo 
work while Bing was just one of 
the Rhythm Boys trio," Ray said, 
proudly. 

But when Whiteman wanted to take 
the boy to the west coast, Ray's bubble 
burst. His father, a well to do builder, 
refused permission. 

"You'll finish high school and then 
go to . Princeton," Heatherton senior 
commanded. Since the stipend White- 
man paid Ray was not needed by the 
family, the boy had no strong argument. 

"But Fate can play funny tricks," 
Ray continued, "A year later my father 
died and when I really needed a job 
I couldn't find one as a singer. No 
one seemed to remember or care that 
I once worked for Whiteman." 

Instead, Ray got a job with the tele- 
phone company as a complaint agent. 

"I was a big man there," Ray smiled. 
"I was sought after by everybody who 
was mad at the company." 

During lunch hours Heatherton 
dropped his career at the telephone 
company and pursued a singing career. 
He haunted the broadcasting studios. 
One day Jie happened to be in an NBC 
elevator with tenor James Melton. 

"It was lucky for me that the eleva- 
tor was a local. In an express I never 
would have been able to talk to Jimmy. 
He agreed to help get me an audition." 



Ray was but one small voice in a 
mass audition. But Ray remembered 
what Father Finn, his parochial school 
teacher, told him to do. He remem- 
bered the advice his mother, an ac- 
complished pianist, gave him. He re- 
called the tricks the great Whiteman 
had recounted. NBC hired him, put 
him on sustaining programs. In a few 
months he was doing fourteen broad- 
casts a week. A year later he had won 
commercial engagements with Eddy 
Duchin, the Ipana Troubadours, and 
Andre Kostelanetz. 

In 1936 Ray got the leading role in 
the musical hit, "Babes in Arms," sing- 
ing the role made famous in the film 
by Mickey Rooney. 

During the long Broadway run Ray 
was infected by two comparatively 
harmless afflictions. 

"The band bug and the love bug hit 
me at precisely the same time. It was 
easier conquering the first." 

Ray had always wanted to lead his 
own band. Enlarging his bankroll by 
two years' work as a singer in theaters, 
he had by 1939, enough capital to 
launch his project. Without the help 
of an agent or band booking office, Ray 
auditioned for the Rainbow Room in 
New York. 

THE Rainbow Room engagement was 
successful. However, when the con- 
tract ended, Ray ran into trouble. The 
bookers and agents resented Heather- 
ton's initiative in arranging his own 
booking. They went out of their way 
to prevent him from getting other jobs. 

"So I had to get out and hustle," Ray 
explained. 

Hustle is hardly the word for it. The 
day of his closing performance at the 
Rainbow Room, Ray contacted the 
Biltmore management, coaxed them to 
a rehearsal hall, and walked out three 
hours later with a brand new contract. 
His band has been playing at the Bilt- 
more on and off for four years. Right 
now they're on the roof again for the 
summer season, broadcasting over the 
Blue network. 

Ray has been married for a year and 
a half to a red-haired, attractive Scotch 
lassie, Davenie Watson. She was a 
dancer in "Babes In Arms." 

To win the girl of his heart, Ray 
was as persistent as he was in con- 
ducting his business affairs. 

"And I won Davenie without benefit 
of an agent," he says confidently, "al- 
though it took me four and a half years 
to have my proposal accepted." 

The Heathertons now occupy a spa- 
cious penthouse in anticipation of a 
blessed event due in September. 

Ray's fourteen-piece band leans 
toward sentimental music. 

"We're now playing mostly for kids 
in uniform. They don't know when 
they'll get a chance to hold a girl in 
their arms again. I figure they would 
rather hold a girl to the strains of As 
Time Goes By' than to 'The Steam Is 
On The Beam.'" 

Heatherton's string section features 
two girl violinists, Jeannie Lindberg 
and Virginia Drane. Both are concert- 
trained. The vocalist is new to the 
band. She's Ann Warren of Washing- 
ton, D. C. 

Ray is in his early thirties, is five 
feet eight inches tall, has the build and 
manners of the perennial juvenile. He 
still practices all the styles of a musical 
comedy hero, and the crowd loves it. 

"Maybe I'm old fashioned but I 
can't stand on a dime and sing. Maybe 
this new style is just a passing fancy," 
he concluded hopefully. 




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Trade-marked Product of Bristol-Myers 





Back from Hollywood to rejoin 
WSM'S Grand Ole Opry, is George 
Dewey Hay, the solemn old judge. 
He just finished making a movie. 



WHEN Jack Benny signed off the 
air for the summer, his last 
words stirred the nation. Many 
people have written to him for copies 
of his little speech. Here it is, at last, 
and we repeat it for what it is worth 
to you. 

"Today Valley Forge and Bull Run 
and Gettysburg and Chateau Thierry 
come marching out of the past and we 
see them clearly again . . . because 
marching at their side are the men of 
Bataan and Pearl Harbor and Corregi- 
dor and Wake . . . and the men who 
fell there are still a living part of it, 
and their spirit has given new life to 
all men who have died since 1776. 

"Someday time will erase the pain 
of the memory of Bataan and Pearl 
Harbor as it once erased the pain of 
Verdun. But tonight the gold stars 
are too bright and new, the wounds in 
our hearts too fresh and the pain too 
sharp to forget. And, thus, Memorial 
Day becomes more than a roll call of 
our honored dead and a roll call more 
of the living. And the living must step 
forth to answer and they must say . . . 
'all these men from 1776 to 1943— they 
died for me. So let me work and let 
me buy the bonds, and let me — with 
the helping hand of God — make the 
sacrifice that tells the soul of each one 
of these men — you did not die in vain.' " 
* * * 

We want to tell you a little about 
Jerry Lester, one of radio's newest 
comedians, a lad who is likely to force 
such radio favorites as Bob Hope and 
Milton Berle to move over and make 
room for him. Jerry is a middle- 



J. B. Clark, WBT's new announcer, 
is no stranger to radio. Though 
only thirty-two, he's a veteran 
of nine long years of experience. 



westerner, born and raised in Chicago. 
He majored in philosophy at North- 
western University and was a member 
of the all-middlewestern basketball 
team. Jerry's father was a music critic 
and had Jerry study voice with Alex- 
ander Nakhutin, the famous teacher. 
Young Lester also took ballet and tap 
dancing lessons. "Something," he 
laments, "I would like to forget." He 
would like to forget it, because he 
once formed a vaudeville act with 
another fellow and toured all over the 
country, ending up broke in San Fran- 
cisco. He decided to quit dancing and 
became a comedian and joined a musi- 
cal comedy called "Temptations." From 
then on, Jerry's star began to rise un- 
til, in 1940, he stepped in as a substi- 
tute for Bob Hope on the radio. Fol- 
lowing that, he was one of the comedy 
features of the Bing Crosby show for 
almost a year. That look of surprise 
you see on Jerry Lester's face, (See 
picture) is one of the tricks he uses 
to get laughs. It developed during the 
time he tried to make a living as a 
prize fighter. He never won a fight, 
but his crazy expressions made him 
popular with fight fans. Jerry tells us 
he is a collector of children and coins. 
He has two daughters, age three and 
six, and a son just a year old. His 



Vic and Sade have a visitor in 
their little house, half way up 
the next block, these days. He's 
young Russell Miller, an orphan. 



coin collection is valued at $20,000. He 
likes bow ties, ball games and heckling 
other comedians. And by way of a 
special accomplishment, Jerry Lester 
wrote the lyrics to Radio Mirror's song 
hit of the month, "Who's The Best 
Dressed Man in America?" We'd sug- 
gest that you turn to page 44 and sing 
it right away. 

* * * 

All you radio listeners who have 
been wanting to see Marion Shockley, 
the cute red head who plays Nikki 
Porter in the Ellery Queen shows, will 
get that chance soon. Marion is one 
of the featured players in the movie 
"Stage Door Canteen," which will be 
out your way soon, if it is not already 
there. 

* * * 

Nashville, Tenn. — As this issue of 
Radio Mirror goes to press George 
Dewey Hay, the "Solemn Old Judge" 
of WSM's Grand Ole Opry is returning 
to Nashville, Tenn., and the popular 
folk music program from Hollywood, 
where he has just completed a motion 
picture. 

On Saturday night, November 28, 
1925, the veteran master of ceremonies 
of the Opry presented Uncle Jimmie, 
Thompson, 82-year-old fiddler, and hisi 
niece, Eva Thompson Jones, accompan- 
ist, in what was shortly to become the 
WSM Grand Ole Opry. 

Nearly thirty years ago, when Judge 
Hay was a young reporter on the 
Memphis Commercial Appeal, he was 
sent up into the hills of Arkansas on 
a story. 

Continued on page 10 



Short Cuts 
to Social Success 

by BOB HOPE 





7. There are a dozen ways to be a social suc- 
cess . . . looks, clothes, money, btains, money, 
petsonality, family, money, youth, beauty, 
and your own checking account. Me, I be- 
came a social success by putting on a big 
front . . . well, I didn't exactly put it on . . . 
I took my girdle off. 



2. Firsl, dress carefully to make the best im- 
pression. I never wear anything beyond ten 
days-I tire of things quickly, also that's when 
the free trial offer is up. Of course, if you 
really want to have something after ten days' 
"trial, try Pepsodent. You'll have a bright 
smile that nobody can take away from you. 



3. Next, always be friendly. Unless you're 
leaving town anyway, never greet a stranger 
by saying, "Well, what d'ya hear from your 
Draft Board?" Instead, give him something 
pleasant to think about, like..."Pepsodent- 
and only Pepsodent- contains Irium. It's 
the special film-removing tooth paste." 




4. Learn to dance. I know what it is to be a 
wallflower. In fact, I once sat in a corner so 
long I had clinging ivy growing up both 
legs. Clinging ivy is bad enough. But film 
clinging to teeth is worse. It dulls yout teeth 
and dims your smile. But Pepsodent with 
Irium sure gets rid of film in a hurry. 



How PEPSODENT 
with IRIUM 
uncovers 



*g§5»y 



•^i'v^'x' 



PEPSODENT 

to oth 



Only Pepsodent 
contains Irium 



5. Above all, watch your manners. For exam- 
ple... when you drink tea, extend your finger. 
This is not only polite, but in case anybody 
tries to steal your sugar, you can poke 'em 
in the eye. Otherwise, never point . . . unless 
it's to show how Pepsodent, the film-remov- 
ing tooth paste, keeps teeth bright. 




brighter teeth 




Film on teeth collects 
stains, makes teeth look 
dingy — hides the true 
brightness of your smile. 



This film -coated mirror 
illustrates how smiles look 
when commonplace mech> 
ods don't clean film away 



But look what Irium does! 
It loosens film — floats it 
away, leaves the surface 
clean and bright. 



That's how Pepsodent 
with Irium uncovers the 
natural brightness of your 
smile . . . safely, gently. 



BREAD and BUTTER 







says lovely 



10 



"Why do photographers ask me to 
pose so often? Because the glamour 
they seek is enhanced by perfect 
grooming of my hair. No matter how 
lovely one's features, glamour van- 
ishes with untidy hair. Naturally, I use 
HOLD-BOB Bob Pins to insure the 
loveliness of my coiffure." 

MOID-BOB BOB PIUS 



HOLD-BOB Bob Pins assure lasting 
loveliness for your coiffure. They hold 
better because they're stronger . . .. 
firmer . . . don't show because of round, 
invisible heads. Finish is satin-smooth. 
Ends are rounded, too. Because they're 
scarce — now, more than ever, use 
HOLD-BOB Bob Pins. 
They last longer. 
Genuine HOLD- 
BOB Bob Pins 
come on a card 
as shown, plain- 
ly priced 1 Oc. 



THE HUMP i 

HAIRPIN «IFC.CO. f cHic A Go/»u. 



When he arrived, more tired than his 
mule, he found that the moonshine 
trial he was to cover had been post- 
poned. 

Rather than face the trip again that 
night the young reporter accepted the 
hospitality of the hill folk and spent 
the night. 

His host was the head of a family 
of seven, living in a three-room log 
cabin. 

"Along about dusk," said the Judge, 
"I noticed the family began to get rest- 
less." 

Finally, the grandfather spoke up: 

"See here," he started cautiously, "I 
don't reckon you'd care to go over to 
the barn dance? It's Saturday night, 
you know, and everybody'll be there." 

At the moment, the Judge wanted 
nothing more than to go to bed and 
forget the thirty-mile mule ride which 
lay ahead of him. But he didn't want 
to disappoint his hosts. So, being the 
perfect guest, he agreed to go. 

Thus, in the hills of Arkansas, was 
born one of the great radio programs 
of America — the Grand Ole Opry — al- 
though Judge Hay didn't realize it at 
the time. 

Judge Hay was born in Attica, Ind- 
iana, on November 9, 1895. He was 
educated in public schools there and 
studied law for a time. 

He joined the editorial staff of the 
Memphis Commercial Appeal in 1920 
and become radio editor of the paper in 
1923 

In' April, 1924, a week after WLS, 
Chicago, went on the air, he went there 
as chief announcer and was one of the 
organizers and first master of cere- 
monies of the WLS barn dance, which 
is still on the air. 

* * * 

Here are some astounding facts about 
Information Please, which recently 
celebrated its fifth year on the air. To 
listeners submitting questions have 
gone 1,142 encyclopedias and about 
$50,000. After the first broadcast, 2,500 
letters poured into NBC's mail room 
but, during its 260 week run, the mail 
count has gone as high as 28,000 letters 
in one week. To Information Please 
have come some 12,000,000 questions. 
The budget for the show when it 
started was $400 a week — it is now 



$10,000. The show has collected 21 
prizes for being the best quiz show on 
the air. Two books have been pub- 
lished about Information Please and 
39 motion picture shorts released. 
Clifton Fadiman and Franklin P. 
Adams have been on the show since 
it started, Levant and Kieran joined 
shortly afterwards. 

* * * 

The war has even affected prize 
fighters. Bill Corum and Don Dumphy, 
who run the Mutual Cavalcade of 
Sports show, used to hate to climb 
through the ropes and ask the pugs 
to say a few words into the mike. All 
they would get is something as dull as, 
"Hello, Mom, I'm glad I won." Now, 
since Pearl Harbor, the prize fighters 
have too much to say. They want to 
say hello to all their friends and rela- 
tives in camp and on the fighting fronts 
as well as their sisters and sweethearts 
in the WAVES, WAACS, and SPARS. 

"What have you got to say tonight?" 
Don asked fighter Fritzie Zivic after a 
tough battle with Beau Jack. 

"Plenty," Zivic replied, pulling out 
of his glove a list of more than 50 
friends serving in the Army, Navy and 
Marines. 

Sometimes, the fighters even put in a 
plug for bonds. 

That drive for records for the boys 
at the front which began a few months 
ago is still on. Our fighting men want 
more phonograph records. Captain 
Colcaire, now in North Africa, was a 
former record reviewer for the Arizona 
Daily Star and he reports, "There's a 
dearth of popular records in the camps. 
I remember one night I passed a hangar 
in which bunks had been placed. One 
of the men had some records of Duke 
Ellington and the others — all vintage 
of at least twelve months old. There 
were these boys, most of them on their 
way up, listening with the rapt ex- 
pression of all American youths when 
a favorite band was playing their 
favorite tune. War was a long way 
off that night, with most of them back 
in their home towns with their girls 
in their arms. I believe that if people 
knew what these records do for the 
spirit of our fighting men, they would 
send over just as many records as they 




James Meighan and Joan Tompkins play the leading roles in 
the new NBC serial, Lora Lawton, heard daily at 10:00 A.M. 




Jerry Lester, one of radio's 
newest comedians, is substitut- 
ing for Bob Hope this summer. 

possibly could right away." 

* * * 

Those of you who have been to New 
York and taken that tour around 
Eadio City have undoubtedly been im- 
pressed by the snappy uniforms of the 
page boys, as well as their snappy 
answers to all your questions. The lat- 
est to join the NBC page boy staff is 
twenty-one-year-old George Solovieff, 
godson of the late basso Feodor Chal- 
iapin. George went to school in Ber- 
lin, Geneva and Paris. Until the army 
beckons he will be handling sightsee- 
ing tours. Among others who have 
worked as NBC guides are Frank Pel- 
letier, son of the Metropolitan Opera 
conductor, Bill Halsey, son of Admiral 
Halsey and Murdock Pemberton, son 
of the famous producer, Brock Pember- 
ton. 

* * * 

Charlotte, N. C. — The voice of tall, 
slender, handsome J. B. Clark is no 
stranger to Carolina radio listeners. 
"J. B." has been identified on Carolina 
radio stations for many years as an- 
nouncer or emcee of some of the most 
popular air-features produced in this 
section. He's WBT Charlotte's newest 
addition to the announcing staff, and 
J. B. comes to WBT with the applause 
of his thousands of radio friends. 

J. B. started in radio fresh out of 
Duke University where he had grad- 
uated with English honors in 1933. That 
first air-job was with a station in his 
hometown of Durham, N. C. WDNC 
gave him the foundation. And less 
than a year later he had advanced to 
WPTF in Raleigh, where it was dis- 
covered that he could write as well as 
announce. He was assigned the job 
of handling station-publicity in addi- 
tion to his work on the air. But radio 
elocution remained his first love and 
he concentrated on it. Among his 
choice memories are informal inter- 
views with Jack Dempsey, Westbrook 
Pegler, Nelson Eddy and Dale Carne- 
gie; a coast-to-coast play-by-play de- 
scription of a football game over the 
Mutual network; another coast-to- 
coaster aired by CBS in connection 
with the activation of the Navy's Pre- 
Flight School at the University of 
North Carolina; and a production of a 
musical show with Jerome Kern and 
Otto Harbach from Duke University 
which attracted Columbia's attention 
and was sent out over the ether to all 
CBS stations after its world premiere 
on the college campus. 






all evening... thanks to my 
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.. H 



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/: 



THE TALC WITH THE FRAGRANCE MEN LOVE 



11 




12 



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J. B. is a North Carolinian by birth, 
although his long radio and dramatic 
experience has removed any vestige 
of a typed Tar Heel accent. At Duke 
University, he not only became Presi- 
dent of the campus dramatic society 
but was elected Editor of the college 
literary magazine — as a result of his 
consistently high classroom marks and 
his flair for writing. He has always 
enjoyed knocking out bits of prose and 
poetry and some of his efforts have 
been accepted for publication. While 
at Duke too, his academic and extra- 
curricular activities were of such 
calibre as to win membership for him 
in Omicron Delta Kappa, Duke's most 
coveted honor among campus leaders. 

He is married and has two red- 
headed children, and next to his wife 
and kids he admits the source of his 
greatest happiness is being on the air 
and trying to make someone else happy 
as a result of his work. Judging by the 
progress he has made in the state dur- 
ing the years of his announcing, he has 
spread plenty of that happiness, too. 

* * * 

Just before he left Mexico, Bing 
Crosby sold nine of his race horses to a 
Mexican sportsman. The horses had 
taken part in seven races in Mexico 
City for the benefit of the Mexican Red 
Cross and Army. Crosby's hay burn- 
ers did very well in the races, but none 
of his friends up north would believe 
it. They were still kidding him about 
jeopardizing the good neighbor policy. 

* * * 

Radio And The Armed Forces: Bill 
Morrow, Jack Benny's script writer, 
will not be on hand when Jack comes 
back in the Fall, because Uncle Sam 
has called him . . . NBC announcer 
Frank Bingham has left the Ginny 
Simms show to join the Signal Corps . . . 
Arthur Lake has now been promoted 
to Captain in the U. S. Coast Guard re- 
serves, he's the Dagwood of the Blondie 
program . . . Harry James' manager, 
Pee Wee Monte is now in uniform . . . 
Herb Shriner, the comic, gets his uni- 
form soon. He's been playing Army 
camps, so he knows what to expect . . . 

* * * 

Boston, Mass. — A breath of old New 
England, that intangible something so 
closely identified with the Northeastern 
section of our country, is found in the 
Yankee House Party, a tuneful, scintil- 
lating program of music, songs and 



humor, originating at WNAC, Boston, 

A wealth of talent makes up the 
personnel of the party cast. It is the 
most pretentious program on the air 
during the day time with six soloists 
and an orchestra of fourteen. 

Ruth Owens, a graduate of the New 
England Conservatory of Music, is the 
prima donna. She is a soprano of real 
ability and was discovered and 
developed by the Yankee Network. 

George Wheeler, former musical 
comedy star and concert singer, is :• 
baritone with a flair for fine handling 
of the great selections from light opera. 

Then there is Ted Cole, a romantic 
tenor, who brings to the program the 
popular songs of the day. 

George and Dixie with their guitars 
have that down to earth touch in their 
songs and wit typically Yankee. 

An inspiring organ solo on the 
mammoth Yankee Network organ, 
with Frank Cronin at the console, is a 
feature of every Yankee House Party 
broadcast. 

Leo Egan acts as master of ceremon- 
ies and his cheery "Come on in, girls," 
the daily introduction to the House 
Party, is known from coast to coast. 

Bobby Norris directs the orchestra 
which has been selected from the best 
in Boston's music field. Norris is no 
new name to national audiences as he 
has been associated with the best in 
broadcasting for many years. 

The Yankee House Party is on the 
air Mondays through Fridays, every 
week, from 11:30 to 12 noon. 

Every Saturday the House Party time 
is 12 noon to 12:30 and is then called 
the Army-Navy House Party with 
guest stars from the U. S. Army, Navy, 
Marine Corps, the WAACS, WAVES, 
SPARS and other branches of the 
armed services. 

We'd like to toss a rose at Johnny 
Mercer for the swell musical job he's 
doing filling in for Bob Hope this sum- 
mer. Johnny is a grand entertainer, 
as well as a top song writer. You've 
sung many of Johnny's songs, such as 
"Lazybones," "Dearly Beloved," "Black 
Magic" and "Five by Five," to name 
just a few. Also that summer show 
"Perpetual Motion" with Binnie Barnes 
and Otto Kruger has given us many 
happy listening hours. And what a 
sensation Duke Ellington has been this 
year! His new show ought to stay on 
for the duration of the war. We think 






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Gas rationing doesn't bother the cast of the Yankee Network's 
House Party show. Horse-drawn carriages of other days trans- 
port the players to and from the studio in Boston every day. 



ie has the finest band in the country. 
* * * 

The way Jack Carson figured it out, 
the insurance business was not for him. 
His father wanted him to follow in his 
footsteps, but Jack preferred vaude- 
ville. We listeners should be glad that 
he did, because we have so much fun 
with him every Wednesday between 
9-30 and 10:00 P. M. Jack chose 
vaudeville in spite of his father and in 
spite of the fact that he had spent years 
studying business engineering. He is a 
graduate of St. John's Military Acad- 
emy and Carlston College in Wisconsin. 
As a vaudeville performer, Jack toured 
all over America, finally writing and 
producing a show of his own called the 
"Follies Berserk." Then he became a 
master of ceremonies in Kansas City 
and saved enough money to get to 
Hollywood. He was helped into radio 
by Ken Carpenter, Bing Crosby s an- 
nouncer, for which Jack and all of us, 
thank Ken. Along with Jerry Lester, 
we pick him for the comedian of 4d. 
* * * 

"It was a nice program." How many 
times have you dropped that casual re- 
mark as you flipped off the power in 
your radio? But have you ever paused 
to consider the long hours of intricate 
work it takes to put together a half 
hour program for a network? Let's take 
the Westinghouse Program, for ex- 
ample. For the show, which lasts 29 V2 
minutes, 834 men are directly em- 
ployed. From the Atlantic to the 
Pacific, 254 technicians sit at controls. 
And between these studios stretch ar- 
teries of telephone wires which de- 
mand the services of 500 men. Now 
for the entertainment side. Singer John 
Charles Thomas has been up since 
5 A. M. rehearsing. There are 54 musi- 
cians in Victor Young's orchestra. Each 
player has a book of hand written notes 
which makes hours of work for the 
copyists. The Ken Darby chorus must 
have specially written scores for six- 
teen men, and a three hour rehearsal 
for a two minute number. Then comes 
John Nesbitt, with his stories of far off 
places and little known things. Every 
technical word of his script is checked 
by the Westinghouse Company's engi- 
neers in Pittsburgh fourteen days be- 
fore the broadcast. Then there are days 
of research, writing and rewriting. Now 
you know why it was such a nice show. 

* * * 
News Notes: The movie version of 
Duffy's Tavern is now under way and 
promises to be very funny . . . Bill 
Stern, the sports announcer, goes be- 
fore the cameras soon . . . Lum 'n' Ab- 
ner have just started a picture in 
Hollywood . . . Jim Ameche Jr., age 
five, made his radio debut recently in 
Big Sister. His father announces the 
program and his uncle, Don, is pretty 
famous out West . . . Newest campaign 
of Joan Blaine's is for junk jewelry 
which she sends to overseas Yanks, 
who can use it to barter with South 
Pacific natives . . . Dick Powell is 
getting a radio show ready . . . Vocalist 
Dick Todd is organizing a band . . . The 
Take It Or Leave It show is to be 
seen in the movies, in a scene in the 
new Phil Baker flicker . . . Harry 
James is in the new Red Skelton movie 
now in production under the title of 
"Mr. Co-ed" . . . Jimmy Dorsey just 
got a check for $79,302 for his work 
for Decca records last year . . . Edgar 
Bergen has given scholarships to sev- 
eral kids at Northwestern University, 
kids who have shown exceptional 
dramatic talent. That's all for now, see 
you next month. 



*You'd think there was 

a Love Shortage ! 



// 




1. Look ot him, will you? That's my husband, Pete, but you wouldn't know it. 
He just sits there night after night— ignoring me. I'm so mad I could ohew nails! 




2. "I'm glad, I don't have to stand Pete's in- 
difference tonight!" I say to Doris, as we go 
on plane-spotter duty. She's all sympathy 
—and soon I've told her the whole story. "But 
Joan, darling," she says, "it might be your 
fault! There's one neglect most husbands can't 
forgive— carelessness about feminine hygiene." 



3. Well, that takes me down a notch or two— 
but I listen. "Why don't you do as so many 
modern wives do?" says Doris. "Simply use 
Lysol. My doctor recommends Lysol solution 
for feminine hygiene— it cleanses thoroughly 
and deodorizes— doesn'tharm sensitive vaginal 
tissues. Follow the easy directions— that's all." 





4. Yei , ma'am, «he wai right! I've used Lysol 
disinfectant ever since— it's easy to use and 
inexpensive, as well. AND ... I can't com- 
plain about any love shortage now! 



Check this 
with your Doctor 

Lysol is Non-eauslie— 
gentle and efficient in 
proper dilution. Con- 
tains no free alkali. It 
is not carbolic acid. 
Effective— a powerful 
germicide, active in presence of organic 
matter (such as mucus, serum, etc.). 
Spreading — Lysol solutions spread and 
thus virtually search out germs in deep 
crevices. Economical— small bottle makes 
almost 4 gallons of solution for feminine 
hygiene. Cleanly odor— disappears after 
use. Laifing — Lysol keeps full strength, 
no matter how often it is uncorked. 




Disinfectant 

FOR FEMININE HYGIENE • 



Copr.. 1943. by Leho &. Fink Products Corp. 



For new FREE booklet (m plain wrapper) about Feminine Hygiene, send postcard or 
letter for Booklet R.M.-943 Address: Lehn & Fink, 683 Fifth Ave., New York, N.Y. 
• BUY WAR BONDS AND STAMPS • 



13 




f/iy/m^/ 



14 



IT'S simple to have a manicure at 
home. It costs next to nothing. And 
it takes no more time than you can 
spare . . . 

First of all get your hands clean, 
immaculately clean. Scrub them with 
a stiff brush and a good lather and a 
cross-wise motion. This also will 
soften the cuticle and the nails and so 
make the manicure a simpler job. 

If you have callous spots rub them 
with pumice stone. If you have fruit 
and vegetable stains — and who doesn't 
this summer when we're all on good 
terms with the preserving kettle — let 
lemon juice banish them. Remember, 
however, that the sooner lemon juice is 
applied after your skin has been ex- 
posed to vegetables or fruits the easier 
the stains will come off. 

A long flexible file — which will cost 
a trifle more than the ordinary kind — 
will serve you better than a stubby 
one. Its very flexibility enables you 
to shape your nails more advantageous- 
ly. Invest in emery boards too — to re- 
move the shaggy remnants of nail left 
by the file. 
If you have long fingers keep your 



By Roberta Ormiston 

nails oval in shape. If you have blunt 
fingers slightly pointed nails will lend 
a more tapered appearance. 

The cuticle comes next. Apply 
cuticle remover with an orange stick 
with cotton wrapped about its point 
Let the liquid remain on your nails for 
a few minutes— and while it's there do 
something about those hangnails and 
small bits of ragged skin around the 
nails. A hangnail responds to treat- 
ment with the fine side of your emery 
board; smooth it down gently until it 
practically disappears. It's usually bad 
policy to cut the skin around your nails 
always bad policy to cut cuticle for it 
will grow in tougher and thicker than 
ever. 

Use a nail scraper— they cost only a 
few pennies— on the surface where the 
cuticle remover has been applied Get 
your entire nail surface spick-and- 



RADIO MIRROR 



Janette, who sings on the 
Roy Shield programs over 
NBC, considers her hands as 
great an asset as her face. 



span. Punch down the cuticle with an 
orange stick, gently. Then bleach the 
white crescents at the top of the nails 
with a powder or bleach. Or run those 
bleaching strings which you immerse 
m water under your nails. 

Again wash your hands — thoroughly 
—using a brush and clear water this 
time. Whereupon you're ready for the 
polish. There's just one rule about 
applying liquid polish — give yourself 
time, time to get the polish on smoothly 
and carefully and time for the polish to 
dry completely before you put your 
hands to anything — lest you ruin your 
paint job. 

Your skin will be lovelier if you'll 
treat your hands to a quick nightly 
massage with nourishing cream. Skin 
that is well fed has a well kept glow. 

Cream your arms at the same time 
you cream your hands, with extra 
special attention for the elbows. Place 
the cream in the cup of your hand and 
rub your elbow in it, round and round. 

After you have removed the nourish- 
ing cream with tissues apply a skin 
tonic. Pat it on briskly to close the 
pores and keep the skin on your hands 
and arms as lovely as it should be. 

Dry pimples, common to many arms 
need not be endured. A stiff brush 
with lots of soap on it takes care of 
dry pimples in no time at all. Scrub 
your arms daily until the dry pimples 
disappear; then scrub your arms daily 
so they won't reappear. If your skin 
is tender an application of olive oil will 
?uard against irritation. 

Your hands and your arms can be 
assets or they can be liabilities. It's 
up to you! 



BE BEAUTY-WISER 

TF your face is large keep your eye- 
■* brows wide. 

If your eyes are deeply set shape 
your eyebrows in a higher arch. 

If your eyes are small do not color 
the lower lashes, use mascara on the 
upper lashes only and curve them a bit. 
If your eyes are set close together 
keep the line of your eyebrows away 
from your nose and extend it a trifle 
beyond the outside corners of your 
eyes. 

If your skin inclines to be sallow 
use a make-up base with a faint rose 
tint and match your powder shade to 
this base. Make sure, however, that 
you blend the make-up base into your 
neck deftly — so there is no sharp dif- 
ferentiation of color. 

Short, well-cared-for nails are more 
practical these busy days than long, 
curving talons. But that doesn't mean 
you can't keep those hands pretty, too. 
A while back there was a threatened 
shortage of nail polishes, but that's 
over. Nitrocellulose, used in nail lac- 
quers, has become available in greater 
quantities since the WPB Drugs and 
Cosmetics Section was able to find some 
reclaimed materials from which the 
base could be made. Dyestuffs and 
organic pigments are not so short as 
to have restricted seriously the manu- 
facture of nail polishes or lipsticks. 




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Instead, use Special Drene! See the dra- 
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15 




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16 



Cheryl Walker, the famous 
Stage Door Canteen girl of 
the radio show over CBS on 
Thursdays, and Sol Lesser's 
movie of the same name. 



LOOKING at the beautiful girl on 
. our cover this month you may 
wonder how she remained an 
"unknown" in Hollywood for as many 
years as she did. Her name is Cheryl 
Walker whom you have heard on 
radio's Stage Door Canteen over CBS, 
Thursday nights at 9:30, EWT, and she 
is now being starred in "Stage Door 
Canteen," the movie about that famous 
rendezvous where the theatrical greats 
come each night to entertain the sol- 
diers and sailors. The gorgeous, blue 
eyed, red haired Cheryl plays the role 
of "Eileen, the Canteen girl," and how 
she got that role is one of those fantas- 
tic Hollywood stories. 

In 1939, Cheryl was chosen queen of 
the Tournament of Roses, that yearly 
Pasadena affair. Like all queens, she 
journeyed up to Hollywood expecting 
to hit it big in pictures. Like all queens, 
she did not and had to be content with 
extra work and bit parts. 

Cheryl was Dorothy Lamour's foot- 
steps in most of her pictures. She got 
ten-fifty a day for that. She performed 
a similar chore for Ginger Rogers, 
Madeleine Carroll and Claudette Col- 
bert. 

Very often Cheryl's arms, legs, feet 
and back would see the camera, but 
seldom her face. In order to make 
extra money to support herself and 
her mother, she would often take stunt 
jobs. When Veronica Lake was ex- 
pecting her baby, Cheryl was called in 
to do all her long distance swimming 
shots. She wore a wig just like Ver- 
onica's hair and she was tossed in the 
water. Yes, the wig covered one eye! 

Cheryl did not object to the ducking 
she took for Veronica Lake, because 
she got $35 for each dunk. But, as a 



stand-in and stunter for Claudette Col- 
bert, her risks were sometimes very 
great and she has often dangled high 
above the ground, strapped to a camera 
boom. 

Cheryl worked very hard, she made 
countless tests for new color film. She 
walked about as an extra in mob scenes 
and, only once, did she get a few lines 
to speak in a picture. 

Then, one day she was out on loca- 
tion with Preston Sturges, when a call 
came from Sol Lesser that he wanted 
to test her for the leading role in "Stage 
Door Canteen." She had no car, no 
means of getting into town until the 
company went in, but Sturges, being a 
good guy, got her a truck. She bumped 
into town on the truck, took the test, 
then forgot about it. 

"Hundreds were being tested," she 
now smiles, "and I thought it was just 
one of those things." 

Cheryl was in Lesser's office the fol- 
lowing week and, in the presence of 
director Frank Borzage and other 
studio officials, he told her the part 
was hers. Cheryl rushed to the phone 
and called her mother. Her mother 
began to cry, Cheryl burst into tears 
and then Lesser and Borzage began 
to cry, too. 

To make everything completely nice, 
Cheryl got a trip to New York, where 
some of the picture was made, and a 
chance to see her grandmother, whom 
she saw last at the age of four. Also, 
they sent Cheryl's mother along so that 
Mrs. Walker could see her mother for 
the first time since 1925. A girl got a 
break and three generations were able 
to get together. 

Cheryl's been happily married for 
two years to Lt. J. Combe, a doctor in 
the U. S. Naval Reserve. 




VERA 



BARTON 



BROOKLYN - BORN, dark-eyed Vera 
Barton, radio's "Army -Navy E Girl" 
has poise that refreshes. 

Uninhibited, gay, effervescent, Vera 
Barton crashed radio in the most un- 
orthodox fashion. She just went up to 
the CBS receptionist, got an interview, 
and an audition all in one day! 

Radio Row is still talking about it. Here 
was a brunette, with a swingy voice, who 
had no radio experience, and never faced 
a "mike," who got up in a big studio, peo- 
pled by some studio executives — got up 
and amazed them all with three love bal- 
lads, "Stardust," "Stormy Weather" and 
"Night and Day." 

Her coolness shocked the studio vet- 
erans — shocked them into giving her a 
coast-to-coast sustaining hook-up. 

Vera is the new type of woman, you've 
heard so much about . . . the all-round 
girl . . . plays tennis . . . knits for war 
relief . . . likes stag parties and men . . . 
prefers Marines, Chopin, and Cole Porter 
. . . she loves to shuffle -dance but can do 
a Lindy, too . . . 

Vera can't stand the idea of a vocalist 
"swinging the classics." First, because it 
ruins the innate purity of the great master- 
pieces, and second, because it reflects a 
sad state of affairs whereby modern song- 
stresses have no confidence in modern 
music. 

According to Vera, "Singing lessons are 
no good for a singer. It destroys the 
natural quality and timbre of a new voice, 
and destroys its originality." 

Any day now, Vera might be lured away 
from radio to cinema land. But Vera has 
her heart set on appearing in a Broadway 
musical, before she goes to Hollywood. 

Contrary to the formularized concep- 
tions, Vera doesn't live on malted milk, 
and cream cheese lunches. Steaks (when 
she can get them) and heavy vegetable 
dinners are her favorites. 

Vera comes from a musical family. Her 
mother studied piano, her father is an ac- 
cordion manufacturer and her sister, Vir- 
ginia, is a talented pianist. Virginia is 
Vera's accompanist on most of her personal 
appearances. In the Bartons' fourteen- 
room home in Brooklyn there is a micro- 
phone-equipped music corner in the base- 
ment playroom and the neighbors usually 
congregate there for regular weekly musi- 
cals. Contrary to modern career girls, 
Vera lives under strict parental discipline 
and loves it. There's a contagious quality 
of camaraderie in her home, Vera explains, 
and she has no more devoted fan than the 
family housekeeper who has been with 
the Bartons for more than seventeen years. 



Your Own Favorite Snapshot 




BYFAI 



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ALTHOUGH lacking any hint of a 
mid-western twang in his voice, 
quizmaster Bob Hawk, director of the 
coast-to-coast radio program Thanks to 
the Yanks, still retains warm recollec- 
tions of his childhood days, spent on a 
farm in the mid-Western state of Iowa. 
Hawk was born December 15, 1907, in 
Creston, Iowa, a spot on the map half- 
way between Omaha and Des Moines, 
and spent the first five years of his life 
there. Then the family moved to Okla- 
homa and schooling started for young Bob. 
"Chubby" (his moniker in those Mark 
Twain-ish days) attended public school 
in Weatherford, Okla., and then went to 
Southwestern College, also located in 
Weatherford. 

Oklahoma was the setting for his first 
experiences as a showman, taking ma- 
jor roles in school plays, operettas and 
minstrel shows. And it was in Okla- 
homa, too, that Hawk received his first 
taste of professional life, when, as a 
Master of Ceremonies, he traveled about 
the state on a good-will tour with an 
itinerant band. 

Hawk's radio experience dates back to 
1927 when he got his start in radio by 
reading poetry over a small Chicago sta- 
tion. He received no cash for his liter- 
ary efforts so worked as a piano sales- 
man, soda clerk, and taught dramatics. 
He ^ was set to return to teaching as a 
life's career, having been offered a pro- 
fessorship at Northwestern College, but 
the lure of radio was too strong. 

After a year of experience at the small 
Chicago station Hawk was offered a 
paying radio post. It was a full-time 
position, in every sense of the word, keep- 
ing him at work seven days out of seven — 
and he received the munificent sum of 
$15 per! 

But recognition came fast and other 
and better jobs followed. 

Since 1938, Bob has been a specialist 
in quiz shows and has had his own 
programs on all the major networks, 
among them the Fun Quiz, and the Name 
Three on Mutual, Take It Or Leave It, 
over CBS, and How'm I Doin'? over NBC 
Now Hawk is presiding over Thanks to 
the Yanks, heard over the CBS each 
Saturday night, 7:30 P. M., EWT. 

This quizzer adds a new twist to the 
quiz business, a twist with the essence 
of timeliness, particularly when Ameri- 
cans are occupied with thoughts of ser- 
vicemen. The contestants don't win 
prizes for themselves, but are paid off 
in cigarettes which are sent to some rela- 
tive or friend in the armed forces. 



a^. 







A S IF in a dream, I heard Jim talk- 
l\ ing, planning. Why, this was our 
future he was painting — his and 
mine, together! It wasn't possible, it 
just wasn't possible that all my hopes, 
all my brightly-colored fantasies, were 
coming true. 

And yet it was. 

Nila Reed, from the ugly, run-down 
house on Farm Street, Nila Reed who 
amounted to nothing, whose father was 
a worthless drunkard and whose older 
sister had taken the wrong way of es- 
caping from drudgery — Nila Reed was 
going to be Mrs. James Driscoll, Jr. 

Mrs. Driscoll, Mrs. Driscoll, Mrs. 
James Driscoll, Jr. My heart sang it, 
and no song was ever more beautiful. 
Because it had so many overtones, that 



She thought it was enough 
that Jim was kind, that he 
came from a world she wanted 
to enter. So she closed her 
heart and denied the truth of 
love when Mickey came along 



song. It meant that I would leave 
sordidness behind. I would live in a 
house of my own, never hearing voices 
raised in anger, sleeping between cool, 
smooth sheets and eating at a darkly 
shining table by candle-light. And if 
we had children, I thought, they would 



be born in a hospital and would grow 
up clean and polite. All this would 
be because Jim would wish it so. 

It mattered not at all that when Jim 
kissed me it was only another pair of 
lips touching mine, that the sight of 
him — clean, sandy-haired, erect, polite- 
ly smiling — had no special, unique 
message for my heart. These things 
were all very well in stories, but they 
didn't happen in real life. It was 
enough, and more than enough, that 
I liked Jim because he was kind, and 
admired him_ because he knew the 
ways of the world I wanted to enter, 
and that I wanted to be his wife be- 
cause he could open for me the gates of 
that world. 

Do you know what it is to be an 



From a Case Heard on A. L. Alexander's Mediation Board 

Adapted from a true case history, presented on A. L Alexander's Mediation 
Board, the great human interest program heard on Mutual Sundays at 8:00 P.M. 



19 



outcast, unwanted — even worse, un- 
noticed — by the only people you re- 
spect? I hope not, for nothing can be 
more terrible, more withering. 

Even when I was a child I felt the 
agony of going to school wearing faded 
dresses that had belonged to Ada, my 
older sister — the same sister whose 
very name later became shameful to 
me. Even then I wanted to play, not 
with the similarly ragged kids who 
lived near me, but with the children 
whose homes were up on the bluff. 

And even then, I think, I found that 
it was possible to love and hate my 
parents at the same time. I loved my 
father for his easy good nature, his 
kindness — and, I suppose, for the in- 
tangible tie that exists between parent 
and child — but I hated him for his 
shiftlessness and his fatal weakness for 
liquor. I loved my mother for her 
self-sacrifice, her gentle hands that 
were always wrinkled from the water 
of the clothes she washed to piece out 
my father's small and intermittent 
wages. But I hated her for the things 
she could not help: constant weariness, 
a high-pitched, complaining voice, a 
house that was dirty and full of the 
mingled odors of kitchen and washtub. 
I hated them both for having brought 
six children — six that lived, that is; 
two had died — into such a life. . 

¥ COULD love and hate Ada, too. Even 
-*■ after she ran away and entered upon 
that secret life of hers, I did not really 
blame her. She had simply chosen the 
wrong way to escape, that was all. I 
would choose more wisely. I was grow- 
ing into a beauty as complete as Ada's 
had been the last -time I saw her. I 
was slim and fine-boned, with a skin 
whose paleness seemed to have on it 
the faint reflection of a rose, and hair 
the color — almost you could have said 
the texture — of sunset on a clear, 
warm night, it was so golden and shin- 
ing. Surely I could put this gift of 
loveliness, the only thing in the world 
I possessed, to better use than Ada 
had! 

The only use I made of it, after I 
left high school, was to get a job as a 
waitress at the State Cafe. 

The State wasn't the best place in 
town to eat, but it wasn't the worst. 
It was just a well-run, decent restau- 
rant where the food was good. It was 
a place where I could earn a living 
while I dreamed my half-formed 
dreams of "someday." 

What would happen someday? I 
didn't know — I only knew that some- 
how, something must. And finally, 
something did. I met Jim Driscoll. 

It was on the train, coming back 
from Chicago, where I'd spent my one- 
week vacation. It had been foolish, I 
knew before I had been in Chicago a 
day, to go there. I should have chosen 
a summer hotel, where at least I'd 
have had a chance of meeting other 
people my own age. But I'd wanted to 
see the city — live in a hotel, attend 






a real play with flesh-and-blood actors, 
dine and dance at one of the famous 
places whose bands I'd heard on the 
air, go to a concert, walk through the 
big, expensive stores — 

Well, I'd done everything except 
dance, because dancing was the one 
thing on my list I couldn't do alone. I 
hadn't reckoned on the devastating 
effect of loneliness in the midst of 
crowds. 

Then, depressed because the week 
I'd planned and saved for had been 
such a disappointment, I met Jim. I 
didn't know his name at first, of course, 
or even that he was going the same 
place I was. I only knew that he was 
a young man with regular features, 
wearing an expensive-looking suit, 
who took the seat next to me in the 
crowded day coach. 

He told me later it was the first time 
he'd ever begun a conversation with a 




total stranger. "You looked so pretty 
I couldn't help myself," he said simply. 
He didn't have to tell me. I knew, 
right there in the train, that he wasn't 
the sort of person who speaks deliber- 
ately to a strange girl in the calculated 
hope of making a conquest. He was 
— well, proper. He would never do 
anything underhanded or mean, but 
he would never do anything very ex- 
citing, either. 




We talked, there in the hot day 
coach, while the train jerked its way 
through the corn country. I was flat- 
tered and pleased because he had ac- 
cepted me as someone from his own 
world, and I ' even thought wistfully 
how wonderful it would have been if 
we had met on the way to Chicago 
instead of as we left it. We could have 
seen each other there — maybe he 
would have asked me out — 

But then he inquired how far I was 
going, and when I said "Meade" he sat 
up straight in delighted surprise, and 
said he was going there too. He was 
to be a mathematics instructor at the 
University, in a special school set up 
by the War Department for aviation 
cadets. 

"We'll be able to see a lot of each 
other!" he exclaimed. 

"Yes," I said, avoiding his eyes, be- 
cause I was sure he wouldn't want to 
see me — not when he knew where I 
worked, not when he'd found out what 



He reached out and took my 
hand. At his touch, little 
searing flames ran through me. 



anyone in town could tell him about 
my family. I just wasn't his kind. He 
might come into the restaurant, and 
he'd say a pleasant "Hello" when I 
came to wait on him, but that would 
be all. 

With a stubborn resolution to keep 
his friendship as long as possible, I 
let him go on talking, not telling him 
what my life in Meade was like. We 
got off the train together — and on 
the station platform the familiarity of 
surroundings I'd known all my life 
closed around me. Already Jim Dris- 
coll began to seem part of another 
existence — a brief fairy-tale exist- 
ence that had nothing to do with 
real life. 

He looked around him, then began 
to walk toward a battered tin sign 
that said "Taxi," but I stopped. 

"Goodbye," I said hesitantly. "It's 
been very nice, talking to you, and 
I — I hope you have lots of luck with 
your classes." 

"But aren't you coming with me?" 
he asked in surprise. "I can give you 
a lift home in the taxi." 

Show him where and how I lived? 
Oh, no, I couldn't do that! He'd find 
out, if he ever bothered to inquire, 
but I couldn't show him. "No, it's — 
it's not far, and I'd rather walk," I 
said. "Really." 

"Well — " His glance at my suitcase 
showed that he didn't believe me, but 
he was too polite to insist. "Just as 
you like. But won't you let me call 
you? I do want to see you again." 

"You'll see me," I said breathlessly, 




"if you ever eat in the State Cafe. I'm 
a waitress there." 

I made myself watch his face, see 
it change. And it did change. Not too 
much, because, I realized, he'd always 
try not to hurt anyone's feelings, but 
there was a flicker of surprise before 
he laughed and said, "Fine. I'll be 
one of the State Cafe's best customers." 

But he wouldn't, he wouldn't, I told 
myself when I was trudging down the 
hot street, my suitcase pulling me down 
on one side. He was only being polite, 
living up to the same creed that had 
made him control his shock when he 
learned where I worked. 

I'd read him wrong. He did come to 
the cafe, and he did ask me to go out 
with him — not once, but many times. 

W^EEKS later, when I knew him 
** much better, I understood. Again, 
it had been part of his creed — the creed 
of being proper, of doing the right thing. 
He would not, could not, be crudely 
undemocratic. By the time he learned 
who I was, he had already decided 
he liked me. He would have been 
ashamed to let the accident of my 
background make any difference in his 
feelings. He was fastidious in this, 
as in everything he did and thought. 

He met me, most of the time, at 
the cafe, coming in for dinner or just 
when my work there was done. Once 
or twice, on Sundays, he came to the 
house for me, and he always took me 
home. Thus he saw where I lived — 
saw the blistered paint of the house, 
the sagging front porch, the barren 
yard — but he never met any of my 
family. I didn't have to introduce 
him. All of us, my brothers and sisters 
and I, went our ways, made what 
friends we pleased, without the inter- 
ference or particular interest of Pop 
and Mom. 

He still hadn't met them when he 
asked me to marry him. 

He had a commission in the Army 
by that time, to go with his instruc- 
torship at the school, and he looked 
neat and pleasant and a little un- 
comfortable in his uniform. I felt 
toward him exactly as I had on the 
train — that he was nice. 

But, dazed by the wonder of the 
new life he was offering me, not daring 
to believe that it could be true, I told 
him I would be his wife. Silently, I 
promised that I would make him happy. 
His would be a demanding love. I was 
sure I could give him all he wanted — 
affection, and companionship, and re- 
spect, and delight for the sense of 
beauty which was so much a part 
of him. 

"We can be married around Christ- 
mas," he said. "There'll be a new 
term starting the first of the year, and 
I can get a week or so off. And it 
will give us time to find a house and 
buy some furniture." 

"And," he could have added but of 
course, being Jim, didn't, "it will give 
me time to (Continued on page 77) 



outcast, unwanted-even worse, un 
noticed-by the only people you re 
spect? I hope not, for nothing can be 
more terrible, more withering. 

Even when I was a child I felt the 
agony of going to school wearing [fatted 
dresses that had belonged to Ada, my 
older sister-the same sister whose 
very name later became shameful to 
me. Even then I wanted to play, not 
with the similarly ragged kids who 
lived near me, but with the children 
whose homes were up on the bluff. 

And even then, I think, I found that 
it was possible to love and hate my 
parents at the same time. I loved my 
father for his easy good nature, his 
kindness— and, I suppose, for the in- 
tangible tie that exists between parent 
and child— but I hated him for his 
shiftlessness and his fatal weakness for 
liquor. I loved my mother for her 
self-sacrifice, her gentle hands that 
were always wrinkled from the water 
of the clothes she washed to piece out 
my father's small and intermittent 
wages. But I hated her for the things 
she could not help: constant weariness, 
a high-pitched, complaining voice, a 
house that was dirty and full of the 
mingled odors of kitchen and washtub. 
I hated them both for having brought 
six children — six that lived, that is; 
two had died — into such a life. 

1 COULD love and hate Ada, too. Even 

after she ran away and entered upon 
that secret life of hers, I did not really 
blame her. She had simply chosen the 
wrong way to escape, that was all. I 
would choose more wisely. 1 was grow- 
ing into a beauty as complete as Ada's 
had been the last time I saw her. I 
was slim and fine-boned, with a skin 
whose paleness seemed to have on it 
the faint reflection of a rose, and hair 
the color — almost you could have said 
the texture — of sunset on a clear, 
warm night, it was so golden and shin- 
ing. Surely I could put this gift of 
loveliness, the only thing in the world 
I possessed, to better use than Ada 
had! 

The only use I made of it, after I 
left high school, was to get a job as a 
waitress at the State Cafe. 

The State wasn't the best place in 
town to eat, but it wasn't the worst 
It was just a well-run, decent restau- 
rant where the food was good It was 
a place where I could earn a living 
while I dreamed my half-formed 
dreams of "someday." 

What would happen someday' T 
didnt know-I only knew that some- 
how, something must. And finally 
something did. I met Jim Driscoll 

It was on the train, coming back 
from Chicago, where I'd spent my one 
week vacation. It had been fooHsh r 
knew before I had been in Chin,! 
day, to go there. I should have hosen 
a summer hotel, where at least S 



■«, floch-and-blood actors, 
a real play with flesh ana __ 

dine ^d dance at onfOft ^ 

rtSr«2X walk through the 
b i e r"d iV do S nre7erythi„ g except 

thing on my list i coul " devastating 
hadn't reckoned on the devastating 
effect of loneliness in the midst of 

"Then, depressed because the week 
rdplanned'and saved for had been 
such a disappointment, I met Jim. I 
didn't know his name at first, of course, 
or even that he was going the same 
place I was. I only knew that he was 
a young man with regular features, 
wearing an expensive-looking suit, 
who took the seat next to me in the 
crowded day coach. 

He told me later it was the first time 
he'd ever begun a conversation with a 



total stranger. "You lo v 
I couldn't help myself" h^ d .^ PrJ 
He didn't have to tell i n^.SJL 
right there in the train thst'JM 
the sort of person who'speaL^I 
ately to a strange girl in tfc^M 
hope of making a conquest ^ 
—well, proper. He would \ He *l| 
anything underhanded or m r *l 
he would never do anvthinf eat1 ' b «l| 
citing, either. anytnin 8 very e ,. 




We talked, there in the hot day 
nach while the train jerked its way 
through the corn country. I was flat- 
tered and pleased because he had ac- 
ted me as someone from his own 
world, and I even thought wistfully 
now wonderful it would have been if 
we had met on the way to Chicago 
instead of as we left it. We could have 
seen each other there — maybe he 
would have asked me out— 

But then he inquired how far I was 
eoing, and when I said "Meade" he sat 
up straight in delighted surprise, and 
said he was going there too. He was 
to be a mathematics instructor at the 
University, in a special school set up 
by the War Department for aviation 
! cadets. 

"We'll be able to see a lot of each 
other!" he exclaimed. 

"Yes," I said, avoiding his eyes, be- 
cause I was sure he wouldn't want to 
see me — not when he knew where I 
worked, not when he'd found out what 

He reached out and took my • 
hand. At his touch, little 
searing flames ran through me. 



anyone in town could tell him about 
my family. I just wasn't his kind. He 
might come into the restaurant, and 
he'd say a pleasant "Hello" when I 
came to wait on him, but that would 
be all. 

With a stubborn resolution to keep 
his friendship as long as possible, I 
let him go on talking, not telling him 
what my life in Meade was like. We 
got off the train together — and on 
the station platform the familiarity of 
surroundings I'd known all my life 
closed around me. Already Jim Dris- 
coll began to seem part of another 
existence — a brief fairy-tale exist- 
ence that had nothing to do with 
real life. 

He looked around him, then began 
to walk toward a battered tin sign 
that said "Taxi," but I stopped. 

"Goodbye," I said hesitantly. "It's 
been very nice, talking to you, and 
I — I hope you have lots of luck with 
your classes." 

"But aren't you coming with me?" 
he asked in surprise. "I can give you 
a lift home in the taxi." 

Show him where and how I lived? 
Oh, no, I couldn't do that! He'd find 
out, if he ever bothered to inquire, 
but I couldn't show him. "No, it's — 
it's not far, and I'd rather walk," I 
said. "Really." 

"Well — " His glance at my suitcase 
showed that he didn't believe me, but 
he was too polite to insist. "Just as 
you like. But won't you let me call 
you? I do want to see you again." 
"You'll see me," I said breathlessly, 






W\i 



"if you ever eat in the State Cafe. I'm 
a waitress there." 

I made myself watch his face, see 
it change. And it did change. Not too 
much, because, I realized, he'd always 
try not to hurt anyone's feelings, but 
there was a flicker of surprise before 
he laughed and said, "Fine. I'll be 
one of the State Cafe's best customers." 

But he wouldn't, he wouldn't, I told 
myself when I was trudging down the 
hot street, my suitcase pulling me down 
on one side. He was only being polite, 
living up to the same creed that had 
made him control his shock when he 
learned where I worked. 

I'd read him wrong. He did come to 
the cafe, and he did ask me to go out 
with him — not once, but many times. 

"WfEEKS later, when I knew him 
" much better, I understood. Again, 
it had been part of his creed — the creed 
of being proper, of doing the right thing. 
He would not, could not, be crudely 
undemocratic. By the time he learned 
who I was, he had already decided 
he liked me. He would have been 
ashamed to let the accident of my 
background make any difference in his 
feelings. He was fastidious in this, 
as in everything he did and thought. 

He met me, most of the time, at 
the cafe, coming in for dinner or just 
when my work there was done. Once 
or twice, on Sundays, he came to the 
house for me, and he always took me 
home. Thus he saw where I lived— 
saw the blistered paint of the house, 
the sagging front porch, the barren 
yard — but he never met any of my 
family. I didn't have to introduce 
him. All of us, my brothers and sisters 
and I, went our ways, made what 
friends we pleased, without the inter- 
ference or particular interest of. Pop 
and Mom. 

He still hadn't met them when he 
asked me to marry him. 

He had a commission in the Army 
by that time, to go with his instruc- 
torship at the school, and he looked 
neat and pleasant and a little un- 
comfortable in his uniform. I felt 
toward him exactly as I had on the 
train — that he was nice. 

But, dazed by the wonder of the 
new life he was offering me, not daring 
to believe that it could be true, I told 
him I would be his wife. Silently, I 
promised that I would make him happy. 
His would be a demanding love. I was 
sure I could give him all he wanted — 
affection, and companionship, and re- 
spect, and delight for the sense of 
beauty which was so much a part 
of him. 

"We can be married around Christ- 
mas," he said. "There'll be a new 
term starting the first of the year, and 
I can get a week or so off. And it 
will give us time to find a house and 
buy some furniture." 

"And," he could have added but of 
course, being Jim, didn't, "it will give 
me time to (Continued on page 77) 






^4 



^^: 







f% ; 




W 



• .• 



T3-- 






m 




; ^ 



r v *' 

l 



Harry stood with John and me, after the service. 
As he was introduced to Lucy she raised her eyes, 
a question stirring in their haunted depths. 



■ 



" J Will Jrar Nu Ivil 



** 



1AM a minister's wife. 
Does that seem to set me apart from 
other women? It should not, and 
yet I know that to many people it does. 
Even when John and I first announced 
that we were going to marry, my 
■friends and — most of all — my parents 
showed their surprise and displeasure. 
It wasn't that any of them disliked 
John. They had nothing against him 
but his work but that, to them, was 
everything. 

To John and me, the only thing that 
mattered was our love. I would have 
been as anxious to marry him if he'd 
been a mechanic, a bank clerk, an en- 
gineer, anything at all. I didn't think 
of him as a minister of the gospel. I 
thought of him as the man I loved — a 
man who hungered for me as I 
hungered for him, whose voice and 
movements and inner being' held a 
special significance for me, and for me 
alone. 

Yet, perhaps, I was a little wrong, 
too. I didn't realize that there is one 
thing, after all, about being a minister's 
wife that set me apart from other 
women. It's the duty of most wives to 
help their husbands along the road to 
success, to help them acquire security, 
position, a measure of wealth. But 
those were not the things that spelled 
success to John, nor to any minister. 
If he needed security, it was security 
of the soul. And this was what I for- 
got to reckon on. 

We were married almost as soon as 
John had graduated from theological 
school, and we went, a bride and groom 
of only a few months, to John's first 
parish, the little New England town of 
Vernon. It was a lovely place. We 
arrived in summer, when elms made 
long green tunnels of every street and 
flowers accented the smooth sweeps 
of lawn in front of every house. Many 
of the houses were old, and so was the 
church, but all were as sturdy and 
four-square as the people who had 
built them. There was a kind of self- 
respect about that town. 

I was glad to see John plunge into 
the work of getting acquainted with the 
congregation. He needed work, to cure 
his disappointment at being unable to 
join the Army as a chaplain. It was a 
strange affliction that had made the 
doctors reject him — haemophilia, a 



Tears fell unheeded down her 
cheeks — tearsof mingled shame 
and happiness. Although John 
had meant this Sunday sermon 
for others, it had found its 
mark in his wife's heart, too 



deficiency of the fibrin in blood which 
causes it to clot over a wound. An in- 
jury from which another man could 
have recovered would have meant 
John's death. He'd taken the rejection 
philosophically, but still I thought it 
was good that just now he could be 
especially busy, and in new surround- 
ings. 

John and I were aware, from the 
start, that some of the church mem- 
bers thought we were both too young. 
Not that they said so, right out, but it 
was one of those things you felt in the 
air. I couldn't really blame them. Our 
looks were against us, for one thing. I 
am little and slender, and I have a tip- 
tilted nose and a face that's more 
round than oval, so that altogether I 
look more like a school-girl than the 
minister's wife. And when John smiles 
or laughs — which he doesn't seem able 
to help doing rather often — he looks 
exactly like a delighted boy. 

It was Dr. Cameron, the senior 
warden and Vernon's leading physi- 
cian, who felt most strongly that the 
parish should have been given to an 
older man. Old Mr. Gray, who was 
also a vestryman, told John that. 

"Henry Cameron said you were too 
young before he even saw you," he con- 
fided with a chuckle. "Henry's always 
wrong, in my opinion, so I voted to 
bring you here — and now, by golly, 
I'm glad I did!" 

If John had a weakness — and I 
wouldn't admit, in those days, that he 
had — it was refusing to make allow- 
ances for petty failings in other people. 
The idea that Dr. Cameron didn't ap- 
prove of him made him a little angry, 
put him on his guard with the older 
man. Instead of going out of his way 



to make friends with the senior 
warden, he was self-consciously polite, 
with a politeness that was in itself 
almost an insult. 

It worried me, because Dr. Cameron 
himself worried me. Looking at his 
impassive, heavy-featured face as he 
sat in church on Sunday mornings, I 
had the feeling that he was a danger- 
ous man to have as an enemy — that, 
although he showed no open hostility, 
he was only waiting for John to make 
a mistake which would give him a 
chance to work against him. I had no 
proof, of course, unless — 

Unless you could call his wife and 
daughter proof. Mrs. Cameron was 
tiny, with a faded prettiness and a 
nervous way of talking, as if she were 
afraid of being interrupted and told 
that what she was saying was of no 
interest to anyone. Lucy, the daughter, 
was only a few years younger than I, 
and I thought every time I saw her 
how beautiful she would be if only she 
could smile. She had big, lustrous 
brown eyes, long-lashed, and a skin 
that was like new milk. But her whole 
face was sad — sad and withdrawn, as 
if she had learned long ago that she 
must live within herself. 

I was certain that both the girl and 
her mother were afraid of Dr. Cam- 
eron. He must rule them, I thought, in 
the way that a dominant personality 
rules weaker ones, not by force or in- 
timidation, but simply by the greater 
strength of his will. 

I don't mean to give the impression 
that I thought very much about the 
Camerons. There were more than 
enough other things to occupy me, 
those first two months in Vernon — our 
little house, next-door to the church, 
to keep bright and clean, meetings of 
the Ladies' Guild, the Red Cross, the 
Community Fund, visits with John, 
sometimes, to the old or sick . . . Oh, 
more than enough to keep me busy 
and very happy. More than enough to 
lend added sweetness to the few hours 
which belonged to John and me alone. 

It was late on a Wednesday after- 
noon, I remember, that this first peace- 
ful chapter of our life in Vernon came 
to an end. After that moment when I 
glanced up from my task of setting the 
supper-table, nothing was ever quite 
the same. (Continued on page 81) 



bMH. 



A Theater of Today Drama 

Actionized from an original story entitled, "The Black Sheep," by 
Ken Webb, heard on the Theater of Today, Saturday noon on CBS. 



23 



You remember' his kiss when he 
greets you from work at night. 



. . . you picture him, sitting op- 
posite you, reading his paper. 





'eamwMf 



SOLDIER'S WIFE 



I CLOSED the door behind me and 
leaned against it, looking around the 

tiny living room. Spring sunshine 
blazed in the west windows, picking up 
the bright colors in the chintz, touching 
the fresh flowers in a silver bowl on 
the desk, the mellowed pine table that 
had been Jim's grandmother's. It 
looked cheerful. It looked like pictures 
you see in magazines. It looked ex- 
actly as if nobody lived in it. 

The loneliness hit me like a physical 
blow across the face. 

I dropped the groceries on the table 
and rushed into the bedroom. I kicked 
off my shoes, hurried out of my office 
dress. Hastily I cold creamed my face, 
brushed my hair, applied fresh make 
up. Then I got into a housecoat and 
comfortable mules, and hurried out 
through the living room into the 
kitchen, switching on the radio as I 
passed. I wasn't hurrying to go any- 
where; nobody was coming. I was rac- 
ing against the quiet before it should 
rush over and engulf me. 



There are different kinds of quiet, 
I've learned. You sit quietly reading 
in the evening, across the room from 
Jim who is reading, too. The room is 
silent, but you can look across at him, 
his long legs stretched out in front of 
his favorite chair, the reading lamp 
picking up the reddish lights in his 
brown hair. 

There's the kind when you wake in 
the night. The city is still. The house 
is still. For a moment your heart is 
still, too, until you reach out and touch 
Jim sleeping quietly and warm beside 
you, and you are comforted and go to 
sleep again. 

And there's the waiting quiet of the 
apartment when you get home from 
work a few minutes before him, when 
you expect his key in the door any 
minute, his kiss when he greets you 
after being apart all day. 

But this kind is different. You wait, 
but you're not waiting for anything 
because Jim isn't coming home tonight. 
This is a bitter, lonely quiet that won't 



be broken for a long, long time — be- 
cause Jim is "overseas," a place that 
isn't real because you can't really en- 
vison it or him in it. No, this is the 
quiet that hurts because there's nothing 
to break it. 

Well, I told myself as I started 
preparations for rriy dinner, I could 
have gone and lived with Jim's family. 
Mother Ruell had begged me to, when 
he first went to camp. I loved Mother 
Ruell and I loved Cissie, Jim's seven- 
teen-year-old sister, and I could have 
had Jim's old room. 

"But I'd really rather stay here," I'd 
told them. "It's our home and if I 
stay in it and can write Jim what I'm 
doing in it — like the new slipcovers I 
made and all — it will bring home closer 
to him. Thank you, Mom, for wanting 
me — but I'd rather stay alone." 

This was true. It was also true that 
living with another family, even one I 
loved, would mean giving up some of 
the independence I cherished. I'd 
worked since I got out of school. I'd 



24 



gr My True Story Radio Drama 




. . ..you switch on the light to 
assure yourself he's beside you. 



Sometimes waiting at home is 
even harder than fighting. So 
much can happen to a woman 
alone, a woman as desirable 
— and as lovely — as Connie 



kept on working after we were mar- 
ried, until the day when we'd start 
having babies. War had interrupted our 
plans and now I was doubly grateful 
for my job. Working all day as recep- 
tionist and bookkeeper for a group of 
doctors who shafed offices in the Medi- 
cal Arts Building helped me forget, 
from nine to five anyway, the awful 
loneliness. 

Mom hadn't given up easily. "I don't 
like it," she said. "It doesn't look right 
— a young girl living alone." 

I'd laughed and kissed her. I was 
an old married woman of twenty-three 
and could look after myself. 

So I'd stayed on in our home and 
worked to fill up my spare time. Two 
nights a week I spent at the USO 
canteen run for the boys from nearby 
Camp Jackson. I sewed. I had girl 
friends in, in the evening. One night 
a week and Sundays I had dinner at 
the Ruells'. Oh, I'd worked it all out, 
determined to be brave and sensible. 
But there were times — 






"No, he said, "I mean being here 
in the blackness, close beside me, 
your skin so warm under my hand." 




26 



Like now. Like dinner time. Broil- 
ing one chop, slicing one tomato, heat- 
ing over all those peas left from the 
pound I'd cooked yesterday, buttering 
one roll. And then putting it all on a 
tray — what's the good of setting a table 
with only one to sit down to it? — and 
carrying it into the chair beside the 
radio. 

The telephone rang, shrill in the 
silence. It's good when the phone rings. 
It brings life in. 

It was Avis Brooks, and her husky 
voice held all the vibrant, electric 
quality that drew most people to her 
like a magnet. "Hello, Connie. Want 
to go on a party tonight?" 

We'd met Avis and Jack when they'd 
moved to Banniston two years ago and 
I'd always thought Avis was more like 
a Powers model than any other girl 
I'd ever known — tall, slim, dark and 
terribly smart looking. 



"I can't, Avis. This is my night at 
the USO." 

"You can get out of that — it won't 
be any fun anyway," she said dismiss- 
ingly. "This is going to be a swell 
party. Some of the fellows out at the 
plant are going out to that new dance 
place — you know, the Blue Goose. We 
need an extra girl. Come on, Connie — 
come along." 

I did want to go, in a way. But "I 
can't," I said regretfully. "They're 
counting on me down there and it's 
too late to let them know. Some other 
time . . ." 

"You're making an awful mistake," 
she sighed. "You know my motto — 
have fun while you can . . . What do 
you hear from Jim?" 

I told her about the last letter, nearly 
a week ago now. The letter that had 
only a number for a return address, a 
number in care of the Postmaster, New 



York City. The letter that said only 
that everything was fine and Jim was 
fine and the country was very inter- 
esting and that he loved me — because 
that's all he could say. 

"How's Jack?" I asked. 

"Oh, winning the war as usual, down 
at Camp Hood. He says they're work- 
ing him to death in that new tank 
destroyer outfit. But he seems to 
thrive . . . Sure you won't come? Well, 
see you soon, honey.". 

I went back to my tray. Avis' hus- 
band had left three months before. 
She'd given up their apartment, stored 
the furniture, and gotten a job in the 
new defense plant outside Banniston. 
She was making a good deal of money 
and she was spending every cent. On 
clothes. On fun. "After all," she'd 
said, "why should I bury myself be- 
cause Jack had to go in the army?" 

No reason, I thought. No reason at 



11. But I wouldn't want to be tear- 
ig around having dates every night, 
nth Jim away. Still, it was her own 
business — hers and Jack's. 

"And it's not as if there were any 
larm in Avis' tearing around." 

I'd said it aloud. Unconsciously, I'd 
spoken the words to that empty chair 
3eside the reading lamp, trying some- 
iow to fill it, to bring Jfm home. 

For a moment it worked. I could al- 

lost feel those bright blue eyes on my 

face, could almost smell the cigarette 

smoke as it curled up over the back of 

le chair. For a moment, he was there. 

Automatically, my mind turned to 
the events of the day, the little things 
le liked to hear about. I told him about 
the grateful patient of Dr. Rudd's who 
was too poor to pay but had sent the 
doctor six Plymouth Rock hens, all 
leatly done up in a crate, to the office 
this morning; and how Dr. Rudd swore 
he was going to start raising eggs. I 
told him about the delicate emergency 
3peration Dr. Holden had performed 
right there in the office. 

"It's funny about Dr. Holden," I went 
an. "A lot of people say he's fast, and 
there was gossip when he and his wife 
were divorced two years ago. But he's 
always nice around the office and he 
loes all that free nose and throat work 
at. the Children's Clinic. The nurses 
don't like him much, but I think he's 
11 right . . ." 

I talked on and on. Until it was time 
to say "And what did you do today, 
darling?" Until it was time to hear 
that absent voice in answer. 

And suddenly my throat was closed 
with tears, and all my foolish words 
choked off. Suddenly the game was 
over. I was talking to an empty chair. 
Knowledge and reality swept away the 
pretense. And I was huddled in an 
empty room, sobbing as if my heart 
would break. "Darling . . . darling." 

I was dressing to go to the Canteen 
when the doorbell rang. Cissie, I 
thought, or one of the girls from the 
apartment upstairs ... I stepped back 
in surprise when I saw Dr. Holden, and 
it occurred to me that never once in all 
the years I'd worked there had I run 
into him outside the office before. He 
came in, self-assured and debonair. 

"Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Ruell. 
But I stupidly left my keys in the office 
and I want to get hold of a case history 
in the files. I wondered if you'd lend 
me yours." 

"Why — why, of course. "I turned to 
rummage in my bag. 

He looked around him appreciatively. 
"A nice place you've got here. You 
don't mind staying alone while your 
husband's away?" 

"I like it," I said. "It's— home." 

He took the keys. "I know what you 
mean. Don't happen to be on your way 
down town, do you? I'd be glad to 
drop you off somewhere — " 

I thought of the crowded bus and 
the long trip to the Canteen, and ac- 
cepted gratefully. In the car, I re- 
membered what Mother Ruell had said 
about Alec Holden last winter when 
he'd treated her for a sore throat. "He 
may be a good doctor," she said, "but 
I don't like him. He's too sophisticated." 



I smiled a little at her old-fashioned 
phrase, glancing at him now. He did 
look different from other men I knew. 
He dressed better for one thing. And 
his neat black mustache, the weary ex- 
pression in his dark eyes, the way he 
smiled and talked so easily gave him 
a sort of urbane worldliness. 

I knew there'd been a divorce under 
rather unsavory circumstances in the 
background, and that he was supposed 
to run around with the "wild" country 
club set. And when he'd first taken 
the office in Dr. Rudd's suite, and I'd 
been introduced to him, he'd given me 
a look that made me uncomfortable. It 
wasn't bold or insolent. It was as if he 
were appraising me — not as a person 
but as a woman, weighing my good 
points and bad. Some of the nurses 
said he was a "chaser." But he was 
being very nice now. 

"Don't you get lonely?" he asked as 
he turned the car down town. 

"Sometimes." I thought of this eve- 
ning at dinner. "It's funny how it 
creeps up on you. You think you're 
doing fine and then — " 

"And then it hits you like an unex- 
pected blow from behind. I know." 

WfHY, he does know, I thought. He 
"understands. He's been through it 
himself. And I felt warmed to him 
instantly. People were so unfair. Here 
was a man whose home had been 
broken up. If he did a few foolish 
things to fill in the gaps, to put to- 
gether the pieces — I could understand 
how he might be driven to it. I'd been 
alone only a short time, but he had for 
several years, and he was a man. That 
made it different. 

We drew up in front of the Canteen. 
"Tell you what, Connie. I'll come by 
for you about ten," he said, "when 
you've finished entertaining the soldier 
boys and drive you home. I'll be 
through work by then, and it will be 
the best way of returning your keys. 
All right?" 

Again I accepted gratefully, and 
went on into the Canteen. 

At first, I'd loved working there. 
That was when every man in uniform 
reminded me of Jim, when I was still 
seeing him on his leaves. That was 
when just being with soldiers and talk- 
ing to them was exciting. And I'd 
thought I was doing something for the 
war effort. But now the war had 
seized my life and wrung it dry, and 
soldiers were no longer exciting. Now 
I worked here because they needed me 
and because it filled up the hours. 




The Canteen served coffee, milk, soft 
drinks and sandwiches. It provided 
a sort of club for the boys where they 
could meet, read magazines, get 
buttons sewed on, or just sit. I pre- 
sided at the coffee urn. 

They filed past me, with their cups. 
I smiled at each mechanically. "Cream? 
Sugar? You're welcome . . ." At first, 
I'd tried to make each greeting per- 
sonal, thinking of these lonely young- 
sters, some of them away from home 
for the first time. They were nearly 
all well-mannered and grateful, and 
I'd used to like to talk to them. But 
not tonight. I was too tired and de- 
pressed. 

As the evening went on, handing out 
the countless cups of coffee, I watched 
the other girls and older women 
bustling around, talking and laughing 
as they served the boys. Some of them 
had husbands or sons in the service. 
How could they do it, I wondered. 
Didn't they ever feel like saying, 
"What's the use of all this, when my 
loved one is far 1 away and in danger? 
Why go through the motions that 
everything is all right?" I wished, sud- 
denly, I'd gone to the party with Avis. 

A few minutes before ten, I started 
my rounds of clearing off the tables. 
As I approached one where three sol- 
diers were sitting, I stopped dead, 
clutching the heavy tray with hands 
gone cold. The man in the middle 
with his back to me — his long legs 
stretched out in front of him, the light 
catching the reddish tones of his hair 
. . . My breath seemed to leave my body 
and I must, involuntarily, have given 
a little cry. 

He turned around, and the resem- 
blance was gone. Face to face, he 
didn't look even remotely like Jim. 
There had been just that fleeting, 
heart-stopping second . . . 

"I'm sorry," I laughed shakily. "I 
didn't mean to startle you. It was just 
that coming up behind you, I — you re- 
minded me of someone." 

He stood up. He was a nice-looking, 
open faced boy with ruddy hair and 
eyes. He didn't laugh. He just looked 
down at me, taking in the wedding ring 
on my finger. 

"Your husband?" he said. 

I liked his noticing. "Yes. He's over- 
seas. And you don't look like him 
really. But you're the same size and 
build, and your hair's the same color 
and — I guess I was just thinking about 
him." I was still breathless. 

"I know." He smiled then. "You 
get to seeing ghosts. The first two 
weeks at Camp Jackson, every time I 
came into town I thought I saw some- 
body from home. But it never was. 
How long has he been overseas?" 

We talked for a while. His name 
was Carl Haggard, and he came from 
Arizona. He'd been in the army only 
a few months. 

"Couldn't I see you home?" he said 
finally. "I don't have to be back till 
midnight and I'd like to keep on talk- 
ing to you." He had a frank, easy way 
of speaking that wasn't at all fresh. 

"I'm sorry. Someone's coming by 
for me, and besides we're not sup- 
posed to make (Continued on page 73) 



27 




28 



SAMMY WARNER is the office boy at the Eagle. 
Whenever there is information needed, Samrriy 
knows it. He is a bright, alive kid, full of 
fun and energy. Sammy lives at home with 
his widowed mother. And she is mighty proud 
of her boy. Sammy is putting as much as he 
can into War Bonds to have money for his 
mother when he goes into service. The sun 
rises and sets for Sammy with David Farrell. 
His chief ambition in life is to grow up and 
be just like David whom he simply worships. 
(Played by George Sturgeon) 



KAY BARNETT is David Farrell's fellow 
reporter on the Eagle. Kay is also a good friend 
of Sally's and together Sally and Kay keep David 
in check. She's as capable a reporter as any man 
on the paper, and she has a perfect sense of 
humor. Kay talks fast and strong, but inside she 
is really a timid girl. Her daring in going after 
stories of all kinds often surprises her after it's 
all over. She swears that she'll never take an- 
other chance again. But just let a good assign- 
ment come along to tempt her and off she goes. 
(Played by Betty Garde) 



Here they are— -your interesting friends 
who bring you the exciting newspaper 
adventures you hear Mondays through 
Fridays at 5:45 P.M. EWT, over NBC 

(Produced by Frank and Anne Hummert) 





DAVID AND SALLY FARRELL are the stars of Front Page Farrell, the exciting serial of a newspaper 
reporter's life. They live in a simple cottage in the suburbs. In his work as a reporter on the Eagle, 
David has been working on juvenile delinquency. He helped to straighten out a lot of boys and show 
them the way to a healthier and more constructive life. Pert and pretty Sally used to work on the 
paper with David before they were married, but now she's looking forward to the coming of her baby. 
(Played by Florence Williams and Richard Widmark) 




29 








MRS. HOWARD, Sally's mother, is 
very happy about the choice of 
husband her daughter made. She is 
u member of a ladies' lecture club 
and she successfully turned it into 
a wartime work club. While not al- 
ways Johnny-on-the-spot in under- 
standing new problems as they come 
up, she is always ready to do her 
share after things have been ex- 
plained to her. About saving salvage 
materials in the home, however, Mrs. 
Howard is there with suggestions 
of her own before being told about 
them in the papers. She also has a 
modest victory garden, like David's. 
(Played by Evelyn Varden) 



30 



LUCY BEGGS is Mrs. Howard's 
friend and the person ( she lives 
with. She is a perfect companion for 
Mrs. Howard. Not that they always 
agree. In fact, frequently they have 
very different opinions. But they 
are both understanding and in need 
of each other's company. Mrs. Beggs 
is a member of Mrs. Howard's club. 
She is as fond of David and Sally as 
if they were her own children, and 
shares with Mrs. Howard all their 
pleasures and anxieties. She's just 
as adamant about her rights with 
the baby that hasn't yet arrived, 
as if she were the grandmother. 
(Played by Katherine Emmett) 




TO M UNBORN BABY 



o 




^GJaS^&aMa 



Long ago she would have dreamed of cribs and nurs- 
eries, but what concerns today's expectant mother is 
what kind of a world her child will have to live in 




I 



WE ARE at war. I am going to have a baby. 
It looks strange, putting these two things 
down. War is a world-shaking struggle. 
Having a baby is a wonderfully close, terribly 
personal thing. Yet, I can't separate the two things 
in my mind. Perhaps it's because I feel so deeply that 
this war is not being fought only for us, today, but 
for tomorrow, for the future — and, to me, the future 
is my baby and the millions of other children who 
are being born now and who will be born in the 
days to come. 

If I had lived in another age, I suppose my thoughts 
in these months of waiting for my baby to be born 
would have been different. I would probably have 
dreamed lazily of cribs and nurseries and speculated 
idly on careers and great achievements for my child. 
I might have spoiled myself, luxuriating in the 
delight of the secret stirrings of a new life. 
But I am living today. The war is real. And I find 
I can't dream so much. I have to think clearly and 
feel strongly. What concerns me most is what kind 
of a world my child will have to live in. 
Will it be a free world? Will it be a world in which 
my child and all children can grow in dignity and 
peace, sharing with one another the benefits of the 
civilization that has been built through centuries 
of struggle, adding their share to the future and 
to progress? Or will it be a world ruled by a few 
self styled "supermen," who can keep their 
power only through the most degrading en- 
slavement and the most ruthless destruction 
of all the ideals and achievements of the past 
and the present? 

No, there isn't any choice. We're free and 
we must stay free. For my child, I want 
a world in which the Four Freedoms — 
freedom of speech and of religion, free- 
dom from fear and from want — are an 
accepted and vital part of living. I 
want my child to know the full 
meaning of the sacred words — 
"freedom of the individual under 
a democratic form of govern- 
ment." And I know that my 
child cannot live in a better 
world, a world in which 
there will be no more 







wars, unless the peoples in the rest of the world live 
in peace. There is nothing I wouldn't do to bring this 
about. I would fight, willingly — die, if necessary. 

David has been reading over my shoulder. "Strong 
words," he says. 

Yes. And I add this. To live in a world of freedom 
and peace we must do everything in our power to under- 
stand our allies better, to understand all the greatness 
and all that is glorious in them. We must realize how 
much we depend upon them just as they know how 
much they depend on us in this war. We must try to 
know them as we know our neighbors in the block 
and work with them in the same way for a world that 
is free and at peace. 

No! No one can tell me it can't be done. It can be if 
we will it. We, all the people. It is not "just another 
dream." It's the all important dream for which men 
are dying — your men and mine and those of our allies. 
We, at home, must not fail them. 

This is no time for softness but for action and, yes, 
for resolute dreaming, for dreams in a good, con- 
structive sense. 

Since time began, I think, men and women must 
have had dreams of a better world for their children. 
And these dreams, grown into actions, must have 
had a great deal to do with the way mankind has 
progressed through the centuries. Let's not forget 
that. 

Democracy is not just a word, or an idea. It is a 
living thing, which must be kept alive and fed 
by the hard work and cooperation of every man 
and woman and child who is lucky enough to 
live under it. 

A country is conquered. This gives the 
conquerors certain raw materials, certain 
reserves of manpower, certain land. For a | 

short time, perhaps, they can control the 
conquered people with their military 
police and force the people to work for 
them — at the point of a bayonet. Soon, 
however, they need more materials, 
more men. And it isn't nearly so 
profitable to buy these things 
from other countries as it is to 
take them. So they march 
again and another country 
(Continued on page 58) 






*. , 






IT wasn't until the train began to 
move slowly out of the station that 
I really realized what I had done. 
Mom and Dad and Annie were running 
along the platform and waving to me, 
and suddenly I felt all hollow inside 
and I was scared. 

When I couldn't see their faces any 
longer, I slumped' down in my seat, feel- 
ing miserable and wondering why I 
hadn't thought it all over more care- 
fully. I was sure to be a failure. I 
knew nothing about the country, noth- 
ing about farm work. I was a city girl, 
'who had suddenly taken it upon her- 
self to be a heroine. 

No, that wasn't it, either. It was that 
crazy, uncontrollable Irish temper of 
mine. I thought back to that terrible 
day when everything had gone wrong. 
It had been raining, the way it rains 
in March. 

Everything had been awful that day. 
It was dreary and wet and the city 
seemed dirtier and colder than ever. 
Then, at work, Mr. Martin had kept 
nagging and peering over my shoulder, 
until I got so nervous that I stuck my 
finger under the needle of the stitching 
machine. That made me lose my tem- 
per and I had yelled at him and said 
some nasty things. The next thing I 
knew, I had quit — before he could 
fire me. 

Walking home in the rain, my finger 
hurting, I had kept thinking, over and 
over, "Oh, if only I could get away 
from all this!" And mixed up with that 
thought was the worry about having 
to get another job. There wouldn't be 
any jobs in my work, the only work 
I knew, because leather for making 
pocketbooks was scarce now. 

I walked along hating Mr. Martin, 
hating to go home and face the family. 

Then, I saw the poster. 

"JOIN THE CROP CORPS, HELP 
WIN THE WAR." 

It wasn't the slogan that got me. I 
wasn't feeling so patriotic, at the mo- 
ment. We Malones were doing our 
share to win the war, what with my 
two older brothers in the Army